Akatosh Kend Kos Naariv (Akatosh Must Be Crazy)
by Morninglight
Summary: Three young people from the same village? Check. Two of them fighting each other in some civil war? Check. One really confused blacksmith who just found out her grandfather belonged to an outlawed organisation? Check. Cynical mentor? Check. Ralof, Hadvar, Bronja and Delphine are pretty much the only things between Alduin and the end of the world. Mead, anyone?
1. A Quiet Day in Riverwood

Note: Playthrough, mostly-canon fanfic. AU start because I use the Live Another Life mod by Arthmoor, a necessity for anyone able to mod their games. :D There a few similarities between Bronja and Lia's background (children of Blades orphaned in a brutal war and raised by others) but they're two very different people. Delphine will be presented in a more positive light here.

Oh, and a poll for my readers: who should be Dragonborn: Ralof, Hadvar or Bronja?

…

**A Quiet Day in Riverwood**

Bronja quenched the last horseshoe for Lydia's horse and set it aside to cool, knowing that it would be a couple hours before Faendal would be available to keep the beast calm. Since the Bosmer had stumbled into the village three winters ago, he had been a godsend for the animals, his knowledge of herbalism and inborn ability to commune with them making him the resident farrier. The Jarl's niece, born on the wrong side of the blanket but still acknowledged by her father Hrongar, was in no hurry to leave the comfortable seat and cool mead at the Sleeping Giant Inn. That meant now this task was done, the apprentice blacksmith could take a lunchbreak herself, as dawn and the half-loaf of bread, slice of goat's cheese and two apples Sigrid allowed her had been too damned far away.

"Good job, lass," Alvor complimented as he worked on sharpening one of the saws for Gerdur's mill. "If you shoe Lydia's mare right, I'll believe you're ready for your wander-year."

She carefully removed her leather apron and stacked up the tools neatly before responding. The wander-year was when an apprentice had grown too skilled for her Master to teach but had not yet found a place of their own, hence the travelling all over Skyrim and learning new tricks or finding a village without an appropriate craftsman. "It's the snoring, isn't it? Sigrid's sick of the noise."

Alvor chuckled dryly. His wife had been less than impressed about the blacksmith taking on a skinny waif as a bonded apprentice and as Bronja had matured into a short but curvaceous woman (came from being a mix-blood from the Reach), grown jealous of Alvor's affections. She hadn't been cruel to Bronja, per se, but she'd certainly done her best to give her the minimum required by the Jarl's law.

"It's actually that Dorthe is nearly twelve and ready to start her own apprenticeship," he explained gently. "You've become a fine smith, Bronja, and I think there's a place for you somewhere in Skyrim."

She immediately regretted the joke about Sigrid. The woman was insecure because she'd only produced one daughter, and while Alvor loved that child and treated her as a son (much to her mother's aggravation), Gerdur had been boasting about Frodnar's strength and smarts for the past decade. It was one of the many subtle ways that the villagers fought the civil war even though they needed each other to survive.

The lumber-mill owner wasn't racist, per se (she hired Faendal, after all) but she definitely held opinions about being a Nord. Alvor's grandfather had been an Imperial and Sigrid's father a Breton, lending their family a darker cast to their hair and eyes than the golden-haired Gerdur and Hod's lineage. Many people who didn't know the blacksmith's family assumed that Bronja, with her drably brown hair, eyes and skin, was blood-related. She wasn't and as Sigrid aged and her fertility waned, she grew sharper with the apprentice. Never mind the fact that Alvor was devoted to her despite her prickly ways; she saw a younger woman who'd make for an excellent wife as she shared Alvor's trade.

Perhaps Alvor had noticed that too and was going to send her on her way to avoid trouble in the household. He was a quiet man who preferred peace – hence his allegiance to the Empire – and wanted to do right by everyone.

"Why isn't Lydia getting her horse shoed in Whiterun?" Bronja asked instead.

"Adrianne's gotten a massive order from the Battle-Borns and asking Eorlund Grey-Mane to forge horseshoes is like asking the Gourmet to cook gruel," Alvor immediately replied wryly. "Besides, Lydia likes to come here and flirt with Sven."

Bronja rolled her eyes. "Well, I might see if I can bribe Delphine into giving me lunch."

"Go ahead. Faendal needs to finish his shift at the mill anyway, so this mare will still be here."

She smiled and nodded. It would be good to rest during the hottest part of the day, maybe have a bottle of homebrewed mead and yesterday's roast-

Something roared, eerie and echoing off the mountains that surrounded Riverwood, and Bronja cast her eyes upwards to see… a winged monster, black as the Void itself, flying towards the northwest. "Did… did you see that?" she asked, voice quavering with fear.

"I saw nothing," Alvor responded, though she knew he was lying.

Bronja decided that _two_ bottles of mead were in order. If she whetted Delphine's blades in return, the innkeeper would happily give it to her.

She walked towards the inn, noting that Delphine was on the porch looking in the direction the creature had gone. "Yes, that was a dragon," the Breton confirmed tersely. "I need you to go over my sword and leather armour. Meal on the house."

That was how things worked in a village: bartering goods and services. Alvor fixed Gerdur's sawmill blades and she supplied firewood for his forge in return. Delphine traded drink for vegetables and eggs. Lucan at the Riverwood Trader accepted food, drink and maintenance on his shop in return for whatever he could bring back during his monthly trips to Helgen and Whiterun.

"Throw in two bottles of mead and we're good," Bronja countered with a shudder of fear.

"When the weapons and armour are checked. I'd prefer you were sober." Delphine's smile was tense but excited. Once an adventurer, she'd settled down in the shadow of Bleak Falls Barrow and told dragon stories to any child who would listen. She also had plenty to say on the Thalmor, which endeared her to Gerdur considerably.

"Fair enough. Save them for when I've done Lydia's horse then. If I do it well, I'll be sent on my wander-year."

"Is that so? Delphine looked regretful. "Wander on through whenever you feel like it, my girl."

For some reason, the Breton had always been kind to Bronja despite being a little nosy and standoffish with others. Bronja would miss the woman, honestly. "And I guess if that was a dragon, there'll be plenty of need for a blacksmith," she observed, trying to shake off the fear with humour.

"You bet." Delphine chivvied her inside and fed her a big bowl of stew made from yesterday's roast, baked potatoes and a flagon of herbal tea. Then she took her downstairs to her hidden armoury, closing and locking the false-panel door behind her.

"I have something to tell you since you're going into the big wide world." Delphine leaned against her table as Bronja got to working on the weapon that the older woman called a 'dai-katana': oiling and sharpening it, mostly.

"Let me guess: I'm the last scion of an ancient family destined to destroy the dragons," Bronja observed dryly.

Delphine laughed softly. "Some of your ancestors _were_ dragonslayers. What do you know of the Akaviri Dragonguard?"

"They were warriors from the east who invaded Tamriel but swore allegiance to Reman Cyrodiil," she promptly replied.

"They were. In time, they interbred with the peoples of Tamriel and became known as the Blades." Delphine's face had lost its humour, eyes grim as Bronja gasped. "You know what happened in the Great War."

Bronja kept on sharpening the dai-katana, nodding silently.

"Well, I hadn't planned on telling you this. I thought you deserved to live a nice, quiet life. But that dragon and you going on your wander-year changed my mind. The man who rescued you from Karthwasten after Ulfric's massacre there was your grandfather, a Reach Nord named Esbern. He, like I, was a Blade."

"That explains why you talked Alvor into apprenticing me." Bronja set aside the dai-katana and turned her attention to the leather armour, finding solace in her work. She, like Alvor and everyone else in the village that supported the Empire, worshipped Talos on the sly, knowing what fate awaited them if the Thalmor caught them. Gerdur refused to be silent and had only avoided being taken like her cousin Hroki through sheer luck.

"Your grandfather was a good man who always said the dragons would come back," Delphine murmured. "I wish I'd listened to him more."

"You can't catch the salmon after it's leapt up the waterfall," Bronja observed philosophically. "So the Thalmor have another reason to kill me."

Delphine regarded her intently. "You're taking this well."

"I've just seen a dragon. I don't think an awkward revelation about my ancestry compares to that."

The Blade nodded with a wry smile. "Good point. I'm not expecting you to run off and join the Stormcloaks or become a Blade like me. But given we're stepping into a time of prophecy and the potential return of the Dragonborn, I felt that you should go into the world with your eyes open."

Bronja echoed the smile and nod. "Thanks. So aside from dragons and murderous elves, anything else I should keep an eye out for?"

"The Dragonborn?" Delphine chuckled. "I… actually have a bead on how we could investigate the return of the dragons, if you're up for a little dungeon-crawling."

"Bleak Falls Barrow." Bronja was _not_ stupid.

"Indeed." Delphine's smile was grim. "I arranged for Lucan's Golden Claw to be stolen by bandits as it's the key to the crypt there. If you and I go up there and clear out the draugr, we'll be able to retrieve the Dragonstone, which is an ancient map of dragon burial sites."

Bronja stared at Delphine. "The dragon was seen about… what… an hour ago?"

"Actually, I saw the first open burial mound on my last run to Riften two weeks ago," Delphine responded. "I knew it was time. Your grandfather told me about the Dragonstone up there when he left you with me…"

The apprentice blacksmith nodded slowly. "We won't be able to leave until tomorrow. I still have to shoe Lydia's horse."

"Of course." Delphine reached over and clasped Bronja's hand gently. "You've handled this really well, Bron. I'm proud of you."

"Thanks…" Bronja squeezed back. "I better get to that horse. That's if I can concentrate after everything…"

"You'll be fine." Delphine led her to the stairs and unlocked the false-panel. "Good luck with your final test."

"I'll be fine." But after this revelation, Bronja really wasn't sure if she would be.

…

She'd just finished shoeing Lydia's brown mare when Ralof and Hadvar, one a Stormcloak and the other an Imperial Legionnaire, came stumbling into the village just on sunset. Alvor, who was checking her work and making approving noises, looked up with a curse as Hadvar called out to him.

News spread like wildfire in the village, forcing Delphine to call a meeting at the Sleeping Giant, the only place big enough to hold everyone. Just before they entered the inn, Alvor nodded to Bronja and handed her the little steel hammer pendant that denoted a blacksmith on wander-year. She clenched her fist around it, wondering just how far she'd have to travel to help Delphine prepare for the Dragonborn's return.

Ralof, bloodied and battered, drank three bottles of mead before he could speak of the black dragon that had destroyed Helgen. Hadvar, a more seasoned warrior and a steadier man, delivered a flat report that ended with the revelation that the monster had called itself "Al-Du-In." Didn't take a genius to figure out he was referring to the World-Eater.

Bronja exchanged glances with Delphine. This had gotten bigger than she thought.

Finally the innkeeper bellowed for everyone to be silent. "First things first we need to warn Whiterun," she announced. "Then we need to start preparing an underground shelter in each house in case of a dragon attack."

"My cellar is big enough to fit everyone if they don't mind a tight squeeze," Alvor immediately offered.

"Good. Until every house has its own cellar, we'll run to your place," Delphine agreed. "As you know, I was an adventurer before I came to Riverwood and Bronja is about to start her wander-year. We'll carry the message to Whiterun while Hadvar and Ralof warn their respective leaders. We may need to make a truce between the Legion and the Stormcloaks until the dragons are dealt with."

"Hadvar and I spoke of the same thing," Ralof admitted drunkenly.

"Excellent. Nice to know neither side are completely full of morons." Delphine's acerbic tone brought laughter from the villagers. "Gerdur, you'll need fireproof tarps over that wood of yours. Alvor, I want every iron and steel weapon you can spare in a central cache. If guards or mercenaries – or Lorkhan willing the Dragonborn – come in to fight those things, they'll need blades."

"Of course," the village leaders agreed in unison.

"Good. Thanks for confirming this village isn't full of complete idiots." Delphine raked everyone with her hard gaze. "I don't know if these are the end days, but I intend to go down fighting either way."

"Damn right, Delphine," Ralof agreed, raising his bottle to salute her. "And when the Dragonborn comes, they'll sweep the dragons and the Thalmor and all Skyrim's foes into the sea!"

Delphine's eyes glowed and Bronja recalled the Blades had once served the Dragonborn Septim Emperors. "Damn right they will, Ralof. And we'll be standing at their shoulder to see it done."

The entire village, rebel and loyalist, broke out into cheers and shouted their agreement. Bronja felt a shiver of fear instead because the tales of the Dragon War spoke of ashen wastelands left in the dragons' wake. Her neighbours saw war and glory, she saw devastation and death.

But, since to the best of her knowledge she was a Nord, she would do her best to aid the Dragonborn – whosoever that might be.


	2. The Path to Bleak Falls Barrow

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

…

**The Path to Bleak Falls Barrow**

Hadvar stood at the end of the bridge, studying the tops of his Legion-issue boots. The river burbled happily in the awkward silence that engulfed him, Ralof and Bronja as they waited for Delphine to join them. They'd practically grown up together in Riverwood, two lads and a lass playing together when Bronja's apprenticeship allowed it, and now he and Gerdur's brother stood on opposite sides of a war while the blacksmith probably just wanted to be left alone.

Ralof kept on swinging his shoulders, the rasp of chainmail on leather annoying Hadvar as once the blond's habit of sneaking slugs into his bedroll when they camped near the lumber mill had. Though a paragon of Nord manhood with his tall, broad-shouldered frame, long golden hair and handsome, cheerful face, Ralof had never troubled the short, rounded Bronja with her drab pheasant-hen colouring because of her casual dragging of a half-log to the sawmill one spring day five years ago. Those plump curves covered more muscle than either warrior would ever possess in their lives, all of it from honest labour.

It was unnatural to see her in light leather armour not unlike Delphine's. But the iron war-axe on her belt had swung easily in her hand when she sparred with him, as teenagers did, and he knew that she carried a hammer as backup. Ralof had traded the looted war-axe from Helgen for a steel warhammer Gerdur had commissioned from Alvor; it burned the Legionnaire to know that weapon would be used against his brothers-in-arms because Ralof had more balls than brains. Of course, Hadvar carried his trusty gladius and shield.

Finally, Ralof broke the silence. "How can you continue to support the Empire when they would have just executed us without a proper trial?" he asked.

"How can you continue to support the Stormcloaks when Ulfric himself led the massacre at Karthwasten that saw Bronja's parents dead?" Hadvar retorted.

Ralof's sensual lips pursed. "I asked that question and Ulfric told me that Thonar Silver-Blood claimed everyone in the village had cooperated with the Forsworn."

"Of course we bloody did!" Bronja snapped. "You don't argue with the Daedra-worshipping nightblades and spellswords when they storm into your village and threaten to sacrifice us to the hagravens and trap our souls forever if we don't obey!"

Ralof had the grace to wince as the blacksmith continued. "More to the point, at least half of the so-called 'collaborators' held valuable property that the Silver-Bloods confiscated, Ralof. Those bastards got richer on the bloody backs of the Reach."

Hadvar sighed in relief. At least she wasn't going to run off and join the Stormcloaks.

"And don't look so bloody happy, Hadvar! The Empire invited the Stormcloaks in to solve their little problem," Bronja added acidly, glaring at him. "So far as I'm concerned, if the Forsworn, the Legion and the Stormcloaks killed each other, it would be a happy day!"

There was really nothing either he or Ralof could say to that. So another awkward silence ensued, Bronja tilting her head every time a wolf called.

"So, ah, Camilla chosen someone yet?" Hadvar finally ventured.

"No. Sven and Faendal are still fighting over her and trying to get me to give her notes that say nasty things about her," Bronja answered in mild disgust.

Ralof and Hadvar exchanged exasperated glances. The sister of Lucan Valerius was the only single woman under the age of thirty in Riverwood and something of a beauty. Neither man had been impressed with her but Sven and Faendal worshipped the ground she walked upon, something the Imperial took great pleasure in.

"So, ah, anyone courting you?" Ralof asked, trying to make more conversation.

Bronja rolled her eyes. "Would I be going on wander-year if they were? Besides, I'm not exactly impressed with the single men in Riverwood and they heartily return the sentiment."

Hadvar suspected being the strongest woman in the village that had something to do with it. Bronja was short for a Nord and tall for a Breton but was quite an attractive lass; in another life, Ralof and Hadvar might have been employing similar tricks to Sven and Faendal to win her hand.

"Maybe you'll have better luck on your wander-year," Hadvar observed quietly.

"Maybe. Assuming Alduin doesn't eat us all."

The creak of leather warned them of Delphine's approach. The Breton was armed with her oddly curved two-handed sword, a weapon she wielded like a master, and looked reinvigorated. "I would have thought you two gone by now," she observed mildly.

"We thought it might be better if we travel together," Ralof promptly answered.

"They decided, not I," was Bronja's terse comment.

"We'll be fine," Delphine informed the Stormcloak and the Legionnaire flatly. "You'd better warn your commanders and try to get them to see reason."

Bronja's derisive snort said volumes about that possibility, earning her a glare from Delphine.

Ralof shrugged and began to take the path to Whiterun, Hadvar following him. They walked until they reached the corner near the waterfall and looked back; yes, Delphine was watching them leave.

"She's hiding something and has dragged Bronja into it," Hadvar observed.

"Bleak Falls Barrow," Ralof confirmed. "Frodnar heard them talking last night."

"Delphine knows a lot about these dragons," Hadvar pointed out.

"I know."

"I know a quicker way to Bleak Falls Barrow, just around the corner. Follow me."

Ralof scowled but obeyed. Whatever crap Delphine was planning, the blacksmith shouldn't be dragged into it.

Three dead wolves later, they were crouched behind a boulder as Delphine and Bronja walked up the loamy path to Bleak Falls Barrow. "Your grandfather would be in his sixties or seventies by now, if he's survived the Thalmor," Delphine was saying. "I didn't really know your mother; Esbern didn't want her dragged into the fight and your father was just some poor Reachman who worked in Kolskeggr Mine and worshipped the ground your mother walked on."

"I'm not a Blade, Delphine. I'll help out, but…"

"It's okay, sweetheart. Honestly, I'd try looking for a hamlet somewhere without a blacksmith. It's not going to make you wealthy, but you'll be safer unless a dragon comes along."

Hadvar and Ralof exchanged looks. _Delphine was a Blade?_ And apparently Bronja's grandfather had been one too.

It explained a lot about the innkeeper and why she'd been kind to the orphan.

Once, Ralof and Hadvar had hunted deer and wolf and even a bear together. They'd taken themselves to Weynon Stones to slay their ice wraiths, to become men in the eyes of the gods, and accompanied Bronja when she made her journey two years later. It was heartbreakingly easy to fall into the old routine of sneaking and hand-signals, the years falling away for this single goal.

The path twisted and turned up the mountain, lush green foliage fading into stark firs and white snow splashed with the crimson of snowberries. Knowing that bandits often laired up in the abandoned watch tower, Delphine and Bronja had fallen silent and into the slow crouch of hunters. It had been the adventurer – no, the _Blade_ – who had taken notice of the trio and taught them the basics of hunting, of survival in both wilderness and city, and even how to do more than flail at someone with an axe.

Delphine unlimbered her hunting bow, a well-worn weapon reinforced with leather steps, and pulled a precious steel arrow from her quiver as they neared the tower. In unspoken unison, Hadvar and Ralof did the same with their longbows, knowing that once the Breton fired, the element of surprise would be lost.

Nocking, sighting and aiming in one smooth motion, Delphine shot the bandit lounging against a tree in the throat, felling him in a heartbeat. The sole archer spun around, only to collapse with two iron arrows in her chest as Hadvar and Ralof, as they had hundreds of times, fired as one.

Bronja froze in a crouch as blood stained the dirty white snow… and then vomited as Delphine strode up to the bodies and made certain of them with a slash of her steel dagger across their throats.

"One more in the tower!" Ralof yelled as the sound of iron boots hitting rickety wood filled the air. Delphine sheathed her dagger and drew the dai-katana just in time as a heavyset woman in an iron breastplate crashed down the stairs and straight for the older woman.

It wasn't even a contest. Delphine's dai-katana, a beautiful thing of quicksilver blade and wind-wounding sharpness, crunched through that iron breastplate and out of the bandit's back. "I was just getting warmed up," the innkeeper mocked as her opponent died.

Bronja retched again and began to cry. It occurred to Hadvar that once she'd come to Riverwood at the age of nine or ten, she'd never left it but for the journey to Weynon Stones – and even then, killing an ice wraith was vastly different to slaying a person. Talos knew both he and Ralof were aware of that.

"Thanks for the warning," Delphine told the Stormcloak after wiping her weapon off on a bandit's ratty furs. "Even though I told you we'd be fine."

"You're dragging a civilian into a draugr-infested barrow," Hadvar told her flatly. "I don't know why you're going there, but it's no place Bronja should be."

"She will have to cope with bandits on her wander-year," Delphine answered, throwing a sympathetic glance at the blacksmith as Ralof drew her up into a hug. "This sort of thing is mild compared to what's going on in the Reach or the plains of Whiterun."

"We're coming with you," Hadvar informed her. "If you're going to the barrow because of dragons, then that's information General Tullius will need."

"Not to mention Ulfric," Ralof added.

Delphine muttered something under her breath and then nodded. "Fine. But this is my operation. You obey my orders. That clear?"

"Yes, commander," the men said in unison.

"Bronja, sweetheart, get yourself together. You know weapons and armour better than us – and who knows what the tower holds. We'll strip it bare of what can be used, then go onwards."

The young woman nodded and wiped her face. "Yes, Delphine," she responded before running to the tower.

"She knows how to pick locks as a blacksmith," Delphine explained quietly. "And the more I give her to do, the sooner she'll get used to… this."

"What has Bleak Falls Barrow got to do with dragons?" Ralof asked as he stripped the dead archer of arrows and dropped his long bow for her hunting bow.

"See the arches? Those are dragon heads, and every building that had one of those was a centre of the old dragon cult," Delphine promptly answered. "Bronja's grandfather – yes, I know you overheard that little tidbit – was a Blades loremaster who told me of the Dragonstone in there. Reputedly it's a stone plaque with the locations of draconic burial mounds."

"That's information every Jarl should have," Hadvar observed.

"Agreed. And I expect you two to convince your glorious leaders-" Delphine's voice didn't just drip with sarcasm, it practically poured, "- to tell their Jarls."

Bronja returned, carrying a handful of small soul gems and a disgusted expression. "Nothing," she reported, sweet face still ashen beneath her freckles.

"Soul gems can be handy," Delphine disagreed. "Alright, let's move on."

…

_If Ulfric Stormcloak had ten Delphines, General Tullius would be running back to Cyrodiil with his tail between his legs,_ Ralof thought as the foursome ascended the stairs, the three fighters having disposed of the archers that peppered them with arrows. The wiry Breton could give anyone in the Stormcloak high command a run for their money when it came to combat and tactics. It appeared the legends about the prowess of the Blades were true.

Bronja was still shaken but had managed to avoid puking this time. The lass should be tucked up in a village somewhere, forging ploughshares and horseshoes without fear of the Thalmor hunting her down. Ralof felt he should apologise for the behaviour of the Stormcloaks at Karthwasten – the Silver-Bloods were… questionable, but Ulfric had always said that honour couldn't always win wars – and try to convince her that most of the rebels weren't like that. He also knew that she would react poorly.

_At least she isn't happy with the Empire,_ he thought ruefully, remembering the flash of hurt in Hadvar's face as she'd rounded on him.

Once the trio had played together, though Bronja always had less time because of her apprenticeship, and as adulthood approached it was assumed that Ralof or Hadvar would marry her. But then Hadvar followed his late father into the Legion, not caring about the threat that the Thalmor posed, and Ralof joined the Stormcloaks after Hroki was stolen away in the night from Helgen. Time and enmity had separated childhood friends but a dragon had brought them together for a spell.

Ralof found he'd missed the easy camaraderie of his youth; he and Hadvar naturally joined forces, moving as one in combat. There were other things he'd missed about the burly, plain-faced man: quiet discussions under the stars, the time they'd accompanied Bronja to Weynon Stones to see her become a woman…

_I wish you'd never joined the Legion. We could've wandered Skyrim, joined the Companions, even settled down with Bronja in a village where a blacksmith was needed and no one cared who we were…_

It had always been assumed that Hadvar or Ralof would marry Bronja. Ralof had always assumed that one way or the other, the trio would remain together until they were old and grey.

It was a pity that Oengul War-Anvil had taken on Hermire Strong-Heart as an apprentice; Bronja was twice the smith the girl was and would have forged the tightest steel outside of what came from the Skyforge-

Ralof stopped halfway up the stairs leading to Bleak Falls Barrow as he recalled a discussion with Avulstein Grey-Mane. "Hey Bronja!" he yelled up to the blacksmith as she salvaged iron arrows. "You should spend your wander-year with the Companions!"

"Why in Oblivion would I do that?" she called down confusedly. "I'm a lousy fighter!"

"Because Avulstein and Thorald Grey-Mane couldn't smith if Zenithar gave them the idiots' guide to it," he told her with a grin. "Eorlund's old and could use an apprentice."

"That's a damned good idea, Ralof," Delphine agreed approvingly. "But let's find the Dragonstone first, shall we?"

Two more bandits lurked inside and Ralof noticed Bronja gathering the steel weapons in a pile for later retrieval once they were dead. He supposed she would sell them to fund her wander-year, assuming the Companions wouldn't take her on. They'd be idiots if they turned down a decent smith.

Bronja managed to find her courage when they encountered a frostbite spider… and killed her first man when she threw her iron hand-axe at the fleeing Dunmer bandit trapped within the web. She threw up again on the spider's corpse, Ralof and Hadvar sharing a sad gaze over her head. No Nord could go through life without killing someone unless they were a priest or a milk drinker.

It was a long hard slog through the barrow, cutting down countless draugr that Delphine claimed had been entombed with a dragon-priest, but finally they got to a place where they could stop and rest. Ralof and Hadvar, used to fighting, ate rounds of hard flatbrod and drank water while Delphine ate some cold chicken. All three nagged Bronja into eating some flatbrod soaked in water despite her lack of appetite.

It turned out that the blacksmith was a genius with traps, using draugr weapons to stop heavy axes from swinging down on them twice. She also unlocked the puzzle-door by deciphering the worn images on Lucan's Golden Claw, picked every chest in the place, and rifled through every jar possible despite the greasy ashes of the burned dead. By the time she was done, there was enough coin for carriages for both Ralof and Hadvar.

He pushed that thought from his mind. All too soon they'd be enemies again. Ralof intended to savour this, their last journey together, for as long as he could.

The heavy puzzle-door slid down to reveal the inner sanctum of the dragon-priest's tomb. "Be wary," Ralof warned. "There will be at least one old nasty draugr here."

When the other three looked at him, he shrugged. "I found Queen Freydis' Sword. It was in a tomb like this."

Bronja's eyes brightened. "Was it really made of steel blued by a dragon's flame?" she asked eagerly.

"It was pretty old and worn by the time I got my hands on it," Ralof admitted. "You should go to Windhelm and ask Oengul about it."

The blacksmith snorted. "Subtle, Ralof, really subtle."

_Hadvar should be there, fighting at my side, and you should be forging the weapons we free Skyrim with,_ he thought sadly.

"What is that humming?" Hadvar asked, having wandered close to the Word Wall.

"I don't hear anything," Delphine murmured, watching the bulky Legionnaire intently.

"Really? It's getting louder…"

As Ralof neared, he could hear the same odd hum – more a feeling than a sound – that Hadvar must have detected.

"'Here lies the guardian

Keeper of dragonstone

And a force of unending

Rage and darkness'."

Much to everyone's surprise, Bronja faltered her way through the Dragonish inscription, fingers tracing over the carvings. "Grandpa would sit with me for hours, teaching me this old script," she breathed.

"Can you hear the hum?" Ralof asked.

"No."

Hadvar and Ralof were now standing shoulder-to-shoulder, thick arms touching, as they looked at one particular word together. The hum became a roar that rattled their bones, light searing through closed eyelids as it burned itself into their brains, the _force_ of it undeniable.

"Fus," they said in unison.

Then the coffin holding the guardian draugr opened and they were forced to fight again. Even Delphine had trouble with this one, the ancient creature ripping her dai-katana away with a Shout. It was said that Kyne had imbued men with the gift of the Voice, but some had chosen the dragons' side. This draugr must have been one such traitor.

Hadvar's gladius, once belonging to his father, hamstrung the draugr as Ralof smashed its skull with his warhammer. Yet again they fought as one.

Ralof looked up to find Bronja looking at them with sorrowful brown eyes. "Damn this war," she said before turning away to investigate a heavily bound chest.

_I fight for you, even for Hadvar!_ Ralof thought sadly. He'd already gotten Ulfric's word that when they won the civil war, any Legionnaire who surrendered would be spared; if they were willing to swear heavy oaths upon Talos and Shor, they could even join the Stormcloaks.

Delphine cleared her throat. "Alright. Bronja, grab that dragonstone and the enchanted greatsword. You might as well sell it in Whiterun."

The blacksmith obeyed as the Blade regarded the Stormcloak and Legionnaire grimly. "You two are coming to Whiterun with me," she commanded.

"We would have anyway," Hadvar pointed out.

"Well, it just got a little more important." Delphine folded her arms as Bronja grabbed what was useful, including an Amulet of Talos, of all things. Ralof held out his hand and she threw it to him; she owned a well-worn Amulet of Zenithar to enhance her skill at haggling and smithing while Hadvar preferred Stendarr.

It turned out the barrow had a back entrance and a small shrine to some unknown soul; they wound up back near Helgen across the lake, so the decision was made to revisit the Guardian Stones and accept a blessing from the Warrior Stone.

Somehow Delphine had gotten wounded, not mentioned it to anyone, and needed tending with hanging moss and a health potion. Ralof bound the wound, having learned something of the medic's arts with the Stormcloaks, and healed it with a burst of magicka.

"Don't tell Ulfric you know magic," Hadvar observed sardonically. "He might revoke your status as a true Nord."

Ralof's fist was sailing towards the Legionnaire's face instinctively until Bronja grabbed his forearm. After seeing her drag a large half-log from Gerdur's woodpile to the sawmill, the blond knew how strong she could be; in the three years since, she'd only gotten stronger, because she could have stopped Galmar from using his mighty battleaxe if she wanted to.

"Stop it, both of you," she said flatly. "You've been good today. We grew up together and we- Never mind. What matters is that we're all from Riverwood. We shouldn't be fighting each other!"

Ralof knew she was referring to the trip to Weynon Stones, when a sudden cold snap meant they'd had to share bedrolls. They'd shared more than that, the three of them, and he could tell by the ashamed expression on Hadvar's broad face that he recalled it all too well.

"We're going to Whiterun," Delphine interjected into the strained silence that followed Bronja's words. "After that, only Talos knows what will happen."

_Things will go back to the way they were: Hadvar and I enemies, Bronja struggling to find a place…_ For the first time in three years, Ralof regretted joining the Stormcloaks. He hoped Hadvar was ashamed to be a Legionnaire at the moment.

For the sake of Skyrim, he would have to break his own heart, and those of the two he loved best. Times like this he wondered if it was worth it.


	3. The Winding Road to Whiterun

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Blame bluRaaven at AO3for everything that happens with Hadvar and Ralof. Implied/discussed m/m/f sexual intercourse between participants over the age of seventeen (Bronja's age at the time).

…

**The Winding Road to Whiterun**

Because of Bleak Falls Barrow and the subsequent trip to the Guardian Stones, the four were forced to return to Riverwood and stay the night as Delphine was still too injured to travel. Hadvar went to his uncle, Ralof to Gerdur's house, and Bronja was given a bed at the Sleeping Giant Inn. She couldn't speak for the others, but she had trouble sleeping without the aid of a hefty dose of mead, for which she paid with a massive hangover the next morning.

Chewing on some blue mountain flower to ease her aching head, she emerged from the inn in the steely light of pre-dawn, everything etched in colourless shades of grey like a charcoal drawing. Hadvar and Ralof were also out and about, glaring at each other across the stump of the Gathering Tree, cut down five years ago when Gerdur discovered rot within the trunk. Bronja sighed and crossed the rickety wooden bridge to join them, knowing they'd need a mediator to not kill each other.

"If you two argue between now and Whiterun, I will brain you with my hammer," she announced wearily once within earshot.

Ralof, much to her dull surprise (her head was really pounding), grinned like the sunny lad she recalled from the pre-Weynon days. "I see you've developed a temper."

"I developed one because my two best friends became idiots," she retorted tersely. "Don't argue. I'm hung over and pissed off."

The men exchanged ashamed glances before Ralof reached out, touching her head and using Heal Others on her. She sighed in relief as the pain ebbed somewhat, closing her eyes to savour the rush of magicka. The Stormcloak, of all people, learning to use magic was a surprise.

His fingers trailed down her face in half-remembered manner, a feather-light caress that reminded her of Weynon Stones. The trip for her rite of passage that had turned out to be so much more…

"Ralof," she sighed. "Just… don't."

The blond removed his hand and echoed her sigh. "We never really talked about Weynon Stones, did we?"

"What's to say? Ice wraith, cold snap, we three screwed each other silly in the tent all night, and then within two weeks Hadvar was taking oath as a Legionnaire and a month after that you were in Windhelm." Despite her sardonic words, the hurt and bitterness she'd felt at being abandoned by the pair of them bled into her voice.

"I'm sorry." It was Hadvar who spoke. "I'd planned to do a term, four years, just like my Pa had and come back. Figured you'd have done your wander-year then and we could… settle down here or go elsewhere. Always Holds looking for ex-Legionnaires as city guards, Ralof knows wood and you as a blacksmith…"

"I had to do something after Hroki disappeared from Helgen," Ralof added sadly. "That could be you or even Hadvar – yeah, I know you still worship Talos on the sly – and… I wanted a free Skyrim where that didn't have to happen. Ulfric welcomes former Legionnaires and Oengul can't keep up with the need for arms."

Bronja closed her eyes against their simple confessions. "The Empire invited the Stormcloaks in to deal with the Forsworn. But the Silver-Bloods saw a chance to gain even more of the Reach and used Ulfric's lack of knowledge concerning who was loyal to who for their own purposes. My father was the owner of Kolskeggr Mine, the richest gold mine in the Reach. Grandfather managed to scavenge some gold ingots during the chaos of the Markarth Incident, which paid for my apprenticeship with your uncle, Hadvar. But now and forever, I will recall Ma and Da getting cut down like dogs because Thonar Silver-Blood said they were collaborators."

Ralof swore. "Bastards."

"So yeah. I wish you two had never left. And now you're just going to go back to the war and try to kill each other."

_And I'll be stuck in some remote village until someone wins the war and we're all rounded up as collaborators because some rich bastard wants more property…_

"Who knows? Maybe the dragons will make both sides see this war is pointless and we'll have ourselves a peace treaty," Hadvar offered. Three years in the Legion and he was still an optimist.

"The Stormcloaks will accept nothing less than the right to worship Talos freely again and the Thalmor won't let the Empire allow that," Ralof disagreed sadly. "I… know the majority of Imperials aren't villains. They're not responsible for Titus Mede's cowardice. I just wish more people realised that _this_ Empire is not that of the Septims and sought out their own freedom."

"And then the Dominion would swoop in on a fragmented Tamriel and eat us all up like a child gobbling sweet rolls at New Life," Hadvar pointed out flatly. "The Empire is far from perfect, Ralof, but it's our best chance against the Thalmor."

"This argument is for wiser folk than us," Ralof declared, which was his way of agreeing to disagree. "All I know is that under the Empire, the ones I love could be dragged away and tortured any time by elves who hate humanity. I… know that the Stormcloaks have bad attitudes towards the other races, but we do accept recruits from everywhere if they are willing to swear allegiance to Skyrim, their brothers and sisters in arms, and Ulfric as the true High King."

Hadvar, more perceptive than the Stormcloak, touched Bronja's shoulder gently. "You're worried what happened to your parents will happen to you."

She nodded, eyes still closed. These two had always understood her. She couldn't even fault either's reason for joining opposite sides in the Civil War.

"Then take Ralof's advice and seek out the Companions. No matter who wins, Jorrvaskr will be sacrosanct."

It was a good idea, even if she knew Eorlund wouldn't let her get within spitting distance of the Skyforge. "Shame I can't kill someone without vomiting," she answered, trying to make a joke.

"I pissed myself in my first battle," Ralof confessed softly.

"I threw up all over my Legate," Hadvar offered almost in unison. "Besides, I think Eorlund would take you on. Precious few pass through the doors of Jorrvaskr with smithing skill."

"Alright, I'll speak to them," Bronja agreed. Even a year with the Companions, if she came and went in honour, would win her enough regard to work nearly any forge in the province.

"We'd better armour up. How's Delphine doing?" Hadvar asked.

"Took another healing potion last night. Unless a dragon jumps on us, we should be able to travel to Whiterun."

"Good." Hadvar's fingers slid down her arm before he pulled them back. Bronja opened her eyes to see him look embarrassed.

The villagers described the men as like brothers with her as their little toddling sister, but it had never been that way. Friends, aye, and close ones. But never family. Especially after Weynon Stones, when Bronja knew she couldn't have chosen between the pair, who'd obviously experimented with each other on their hunting trips after their own rite of passage. Even now she remembered the laughter and mead-fuelled explorations in that tent, when they'd had to huddle together because of the cold anyway…

She sighed and nodded to them. "I'll meet you two at the bridge with Delphine then."

"Bronja?" It was Ralof who called her just as she turned away.

"Yeah?" She looked over her shoulder.

The Stormcloak reached out and pulled her into a quick, hard kiss, then grabbed Hadvar before he could resist and did the same.

"I still have plenty to say on Weynon Stones. But now isn't the time." He looked at them, sky-blue eyes passionate, and then stalked away to collect his armour from his sister's house.

Bronja and Hadvar exchanged glances before going their separate ways, leaving unspoken questions and feelings hanging in the air. The rift between all three was narrower – but deeper – than before.

…

Delphine knew every secret that was worth knowing in Riverwood: she knew that Sven was only courting Camilla because he thought Lydia was out of his league, she knew Faendal had fled the Aldmeri Dominion for murdering the Justicar who purged his family, and she most definitely knew that Bronja, Hadvar and Ralof had slept with each other.

So the kisses delivered by the Stormcloak to the blacksmith and the Legionnaire was no surprise to the Blade. With what she suspected about the two men since Bleak Falls Barrow (it couldn't be denied Akatosh had a sense of humour), she thought it might even be a good thing. And if Bronja joined the Companions, she could continue to be a neutral arbiter between the pair.

Personally, the Breton preferred Ulfric because of his stance against the Thalmor; politically, however, she knew the Empire was likely the best bet in the long run. But it was still hard to recall years of running missions against the Dominion at the behest of the Imperial spymasters and then get sold to the genocidal mer because the Empire had to be preserved at all costs…

_Talos, I pray one or both of them are Dragonborn. I need a purpose again._ And it would justify the Blades training she'd delivered to all three children, preparing them for a second war that no one wanted to believe coming.

Bronja's ability to read Dragonish had been a welcome shock, though Delphine should have known Esbern wouldn't let such precious knowledge slip away with his death. She was the brawn of the troika, as Hadvar was the brains and Ralof the beauty. But as the most sheltered, she needed to grow the most.

As the blacksmith entered, Delphine cleared her throat with a painful noise. She was still injured from having her dai-katana ripped from her hands, but not as badly as she was about to make out. "I need you to deliver the Dragonstone and the warning to the Jarl," the innkeeper announced. "The wound's worse than I thought."

The young woman sighed but nodded; travelling with Hadvar and Ralof alone would be… awkward. "Of course," she agreed.

"Thanks, sweetheart." Delphine reached into a satchel and produced a simple gold ring that gleamed opalescent with enchantment. "Esbern told me this ring belonged to your mother. She was an arcane smith – like Eorlund up at the Skyforge – and had settled down in Karthwasten to work in peace. It's got enhancements to both smithing and enchanting, and if I recall correctly, it was your mother's master's piece."

"By the Nine," she breathed, accepting the ring when handed to her. "I… remember it. Mother never liked wearing lots of jewellery, though she certainly knew how to make it! She made Father gloves that allowed him to resist the heat of the smelter and regain his breath quicker…"

"She didn't even live to see thirty," Delphine said sadly.

"All because the Silver-Bloods are greedy bastards," Bronja added flatly before putting the ring on. "I… Thank you, Delphine. If I wind up doing my wander-year with the Companions, I'll come through and visit whenever I can."

"With the dragons returning, I may not be around," Delphine warned softly. Orgnar knew what she was, being the son of a Blade himself, but Embry the drunk could wander in at any moment for his breakfast mead.

"You're not as injured as you're making out," the blacksmith observed shrewdly.

"No, I'm not. I need to set up a few things for the appearance of the Dragonborn. And… the Thalmor may be behind the return of Alduin. Maybe I'm being paranoid, but I need to investigate that possibility."

Hadvar would have asked questions; Ralof offered to accompany her. But Bronja simply nodded in acceptance and took the satchel with the Dragonstone in it. Delphine wasn't a sentimentalist by any means, but she admitted to feeling a pang of proud sorrow at the girl she'd helped raised.

"Safe journey," she wished. "And Talos guide you."

"You too," Bronja answered before heading into her room to put on her armour. It would be a few months or so before they saw each other again, but Delphine knew that things would be different. When children grew up, they always were.

…

"Hello, Skjor."

The Companion, a compact but muscular Nord with long grey hair, half-drew his Skyforge Steel blade before Delphine emerged from the shadows of the stone outcrop on which the Skyforge sat. "You nearly ate four foot of steel," he noted, sliding his sword back into its sheath.

"Pfft. In your dreams." Delphine smiled at the warrior who'd nearly become a Blade and still remained a good friend. He'd helped smuggle her to Skyrim in the wake of Cloud Ruler's fall. "It's been too long, old friend."

"When you say that, I know you want a favour," the werewolf countered with a wry grin. "Tired of being an innkeeper and want to join the Companions? Gods know we could use your experience because this current pack of whelps sucks more than a baby at the teat."

"I'd be your Harbinger in three months and you'd be up the White River without a paddle," she smirked in answer. "But I _am_ asking you to give a young woman a chance."

"Bronja." The Companions, who travelled all over Skyrim, kept note of every potential recruit they could; practically living on Whiterun's doorstep meant they'd taken notice of the Riverwood trio. It was a pity Hadvar and Ralof had gone on to join opposite sides of the war.

"She's due for her wander-year," Delphine confirmed. "She's… not the greatest fighter, not like Hadvar and Ralof. But she's probably one of the best _young_ smiths in the Hold – and Talos knows that Eorlund isn't getting any younger."

Skjor grunted thoughtfully. "We won't seek her out. She wants to be a Companion, she can come to Jorrvaskr."

"Hadvar and Ralof convinced her to try because like most of the sane people in Skyrim, she doesn't like either the Empire _or_ the Stormcloaks." Delphine took a deep breath and decided to spill another secret. "One – or both – of those two may be Dragonborn. They translated a Dragonish word on a Word Wall without knowing the rest of the script."

Skjor's eyebrow shot up. "That so? Well, if that's true, Akatosh must have a warped sense of humour."

"Or He's trying to bring Skyrim together." Delphine shrugged. "Only a Dragonborn can kill a dragon permanently by sucking out its soul."

"Is that so? Thanks for the heads up." Skjor looked behind him as Aela the Huntress entered the courtyard.

"Delphine!" the Huntress greeted with a smile. "What brings you to Jorrvaskr?"

"A warning about the dragons," Skjor said. "And a potential apprentice for Eorlund."

"The girl from Riverwood? Bronna?"

"Bronja," Delphine corrected. "But yes. I only ask that she be given a chance, not coddled."

Aela smiled wolfishly. "We can do that if she has the courage to seek us out."

"Thanks, both of you." Delphine smiled, knowing the two were eager for the hunt. In this fallen time, it wasn't her place to judge her allies too harshly, not when she'd probably killed more people than the pair of them put together. "Happy hunting."

"You too, Delphine."

The Blade left Jorrvaskr and headed for the gates. Next stop was Morthal and the tomb of Jurgen Windcaller, as the Greybeards were invariably predictable. Whether the Dragonborn was Hadvar, Ralof, both of them or someone else, they would have to come to her.

Once again, the Blades would have a Dragonborn to guide and protect.


	4. The Dragon Over the Watchtower

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Playing around with the first encounter with Companions. This was all bluRaaven's idea and I loved it so much I had to use it. Short chapter!

…

**The Dragon over the Western Watchtower**

The trek from Riverwood to the bottom of the waterfall was a short one completed in silence. Delphine's injury – worse than Bronja had thought – meant that things were awkward between the trio. Ralof knew he should have kept his mouth shut about his feelings. Galmar and even Ulfric had told the blond warrior he needed to learn how to shut up. But hearing Hadvar defend the Empire and Bronja speak lightly of the trip to Weynon Stones had brought his confession forth like the bubbling hot springs in the Aalto between Windhelm and Riften. And Hadvar shirtless, fantastically muscled from the heavy Imperial armour he wore, and those soft curves of Bronja's beneath her sleeping shift…? Ralof had never been able to resist temptation.

Now the Stormcloak, wearing plain garments until he was out of Whiterun Hold, held up his hand to scan the sky and road ahead. Knowing dragons had returned made him twice as vigilant, especially since he held the safety of those he loved in his hands. Smoke rose to the west, likely near the watchtower, and then he heard an all-too-familiar call.

"That's a dragon," he reported tersely for Bronja's sake because she'd not been at Helgen.

"We need to get over there," Hadvar said grimly, hefting his shield. "Get into your armour, Ralof. You're no good dead."

It meant that they were wasting precious time, but the blond had no choice but to go to the back of Honningbrew Meadery and don his chainmail shirt with help from Bronja. If her hands lingered on his biceps, he said nothing but filed it away for later.

"Stay behind-" Hadvar began, only to be cut off by the short woman silencing him with a chop of her hand.

"No. I will not run away. I'm descended from the Akaviri Dragonguard – or so Delphine tells me."

"Then stand back and throw things – preferably the javelins, if they're not alight – because you're a lousy archer," Ralof commanded. "And don't close in unless you can attack the flanks and back."

Bronja nodded tightly and they were running for the watchtower, where the crackle of lightning indicated the presence of Irileth, Balgruuf's Dunmer huscarl.

The scent of charred human flesh hit his nostrils, but Ralof used the discipline of a few dozen skirmishes – and surviving Helgen – to ignore it in favour of unsheathing his warhammer. Alvor had forged it at Gerdur's request, remembering her brother's skill with two-handed weapons, and Ralof decided not to tell her he'd prefer something Bronja had made. But as he spun it around so that the back-spike could be used to puncture through dragonscale, he supposed it would serve its purpose well.

Hadvar, armed with sword and shield, engaged the dragon at the front as the beast landed with a mocking taunt in Dragonish. Then it Shouted, producing a blast of flame that drove back all but the Legionnaire and Irileth, to whom it was likely little more than a hot dry bath. Ralof took advantage of the creature focusing on them to attack its flanks, warhammer skidding along scale harder than steel and leaving a wicked gouge.

Bronja had run to the rack of javelins just inside the mostly intact tower and emerged from it, hefting one with deadly accuracy. In knife-throwing contests, Sven had accused her of using magic to put the dagger in the bullseye, but it was just the knack of hand and eye that she used to find the smallest flaw in anything she made. The dragon roared, this time in pain, as the javelin scratched its right eyebrow ridge to draw enough blood to blind it.

Wisely, the blacksmith jumped off the ramp leading into the tower as the dragon Shouted in her direction, Irileth and Hadvar moving on either side of the beast to hamstring it. The Dunmer's ebony dagger had better luck than Hadvar's gladius but the Legionnaire kept on hacking away in the stubborn manner which characterised him.

An enormous shape emerged from the smoke, revealing itself to be the Companion Farkas, accompanied by Aela the Huntress and some Imperial girl who still carried her Skyforge Steel sword with appropriate skill. "C'mon, ugly!" Farkas bellowed, drawing the dragon's attention.

Bronja appeared again with her iron hand-axe unsheathed, the pedestrian weapon perfectly balanced for throwing. As the dragon crawled on its wings towards the giant Companion, she paused, aimed and threw within five heartbeats, axe spinning to land with a meaty thunk between two spine-ridges. The dragon roared and tried to rear up, but its hamstrung right leg collapsed under it and forced it to roll to the side, presenting what had to be a vulnerable belly.

After that, finishing the screaming monster was little more than simple butchery, the coppery scent of blood intermingling with some foreign spice-smell reminiscent of the Khajiit. By the time they were done, everyone was drenched in gore like dremora from the bowels of Oblivion. But the dragon died with one last exhalation of, _"Dovahkiin? Niid!"_

Sooty orange flame cracked through the scales, burning them away to reveal a skeleton that shone with metallic dirt-brown highlights; Ralof and Hadvar walked towards the carcass in a trance, the others staring open-mouthed before falling back in justifiable caution.

It was Ralof who got there first, white-gold contrails of light causing him to roar in pain as _something_ tore through his head, but then Hadvar grabbed his arm and the agony eased somewhat as the Legionnaire's broad, plain face contorted.

_"FUS!"_ The Shout, delivered in tandem, drove them apart.

Bronja stared at them, jaw dropping even further, before starting to laugh in near-hysteria. Irileth simply regarded them warily while the Companions were torn between shock and awe.

For his part, Ralof met Hadvar's eyes and knew they were of the same kind. _Dovah._ Dragon.

Everything had changed. And Ralof knew that he could never face Hadvar in battle again, not for the honour of Skyrim, not for anything. Nothing was worth killing his soulmate.

He'd just have to talk the brown-haired man into joining the Stormcloaks. With two Dragonborn, the Empire could be swept from the land, corruption purged and Talos recognised as the Lord of the Divines once more.

Akatosh obviously approved – why else would He have made them both Dragonborn?

…

Hadvar sank onto a bench in the Great Hall of Dragonsreach, eyeing the bottle of Alto wine longingly. "Akatosh must be crazy," he muttered. Choosing a Dragonborn from both sides of the war? Was the Time-God hedging His bets somehow?

Ralof, of course, had taken it as Divine providence and was trying to sell the Stormcloaks to Hadvar more fervently. All the Legionnaire wanted to do was crawl into a tavern and get absolutely drunk. Bronja was the one actually talking to the Jarl and delivering the Dragonstone to Farengar; once over her hysteria, she'd grimly thrown herself into the actual reason why they were here in Whiterun.

Of course, they'd need to travel to High Hrothgar next. Hadvar wanted to report to the nearest Legate (in Rorikstead) but how the hell did one tell their commanding officer "I'm Dragonborn. But so is my best friend who just happens to be a Stormcloak"?

Finally Bronja stopped talking with the Jarl and descended to the bench where he sat, head in his hands, and Ralof had fallen asleep after purloining a bottle of wine from the Jarl's table. Being the Dragonborn, the servants had allowed it.

"We three are being made Thanes of Whiterun," she reported tersely. "The Jarl's accepting that you two are too exhausted for a ceremony, but he's commissioning enchanted weapons for you both. Of course, I'll be forging them."

"How can I fight him?" Hadvar asked despairingly. "He's… my other half. Dragonborn!"

"Tell the Legion and the Stormcloaks to go screw themselves, I suppose?" Bronja suggested acidly. "The dragons are a bigger threat than the damned civil war at the moment!"

"Finally, someone who agrees with me," Balgruuf observed, having walked down the stairs. "So, two Dragonborn, one on each side of the Civil War. Akatosh has a strange sense of humour."

Hadvar elbowed Ralof awoke, much to the man's mumbling discontent. "I can only hope our commanders will allow us to focus on the dragons, sir."

"That makes three of us," Bronja agreed softly. Then she regarded the two men on the bench. "I'm going to Jorrvaskr. I need some time alone."

Before either could say anything, she left after nodding curtly to Balgruuf. Hadvar watched her go, wondering if the bonds between him, Ralof and her would be broken forever. If anyone should have been Dragonborn, it was Bronja with her neutrality and willingness to do what was right.

"You could join the Companions," Balgruuf suggested tactfully.

"No. It's where Bronja's bound," Hadvar muttered. "She needs space."

"She needs to be with us," Ralof mumbled, the wine taking the filter off his mouth.

"…You're welcome to stay here. I have a couple spare bedrolls." Balgruuf, ever the consummate politician and diplomat, said nothing about Ralof's revelation. Hadvar sighed, wondering if he could find a way to gag the idiot until… wherever.

One term in the Legion had been his plan, then travel to somewhere like Dragon Bridge or Rorikstead to settle down with Bronja and Ralof. Maybe even the Reach to regain her birthright – a goldmine would be profitable, after all. But then Hroki mouthed off to that mer in Helgen and was taken…

Hadvar actually hadn't seen Ralof again until Helgen, where bound and destined for the executioner's block they'd never see each other in Sovngarde again. But Alduin had tried to kill them both – because they were the ones destined to slay him.

"You're welcome to some wine if you wish," Balgruuf added, nodding to the bottle just within Hadvar's reach. "Just… please don't Shout my hall down."

Hadvar reached for the bottle and popped the cork. By the Nine, he needed the oblivion of alcohol right damned now.


	5. Beneath the Eaves of Jorrvaskr

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I have a particular head-canon involving the Skyforge and the one who smiths it; Eorlund is an Arcane Smith in this continuity.

…

**Beneath the Eaves of Jorrvaskr**

"Are those two at it again?"

Bronja paused as she entered the famed mead-hall of Jorrvaskr, exhausted by the day's events, and heard the balding old Companion's weary question to the redhead she recalled from the western watchtower. Then the sound of a minor scuffle broke out at one end of the room between the fire-pit and the stairs as a silver-haired Nord woman and a scarlet-haired Dunmer fought bare-handed over some slight. She'd heard that the Companions accepted anyone with honour, but it was still startling to see a mer beneath the eaves of Jorrvaskr.

The blacksmith sank down on a bench next to a balding dark-haired man in a plain tunic and an ancient white-haired elder in a fine quilted coat, wondering why she was here. It was hubris to think that a village apprentice would be worthy of gracing these halls as a warrior, let alone actually lay a hand on the Skyforge. But where else could she go? Not in the shadow of Ralof and Hadvar. The path of two Dragonborn on either side of the war could only end in grief for Skyrim.

After a few punches, the brawl stopped when the Nord woman delivered a powerful left hook to the Dunmer's jaw, felling him instantly. "And that's why they call me 'Stonearm'," she informed the now-unconscious mer flatly.

"Dammit, Athis will be useless for a few days," the grizzled Companion, who carried himself with some authority, observed with a sigh.

"Njada can take his jobs," the redhead suggested coolly. "Since she seems to think she's better than the other whelps."

"That's a good idea, Aela," the warrior answered.

The elder, whose skin was dark for a Nord, suddenly glanced in Bronja's direction. She'd cleaned up at the Bannered Mare after trading some of the weapons she'd found to Adrianne at Warmaiden's, so at least the blood and dirt were gone, but her leather armour had taken quite the battering these past few days. "We've got enough whelps," he announced curtly.

Bronja pulled out her steel hammer pendant. "How many can smith?" she countered.

"Oh, hey! It's… Bronna, right?" greeted the Imperial who'd fought the dragon alongside Aela and the giant who was now ambling over curiously.

"Bronja," the smith corrected with a smile. The young woman's cheer was enough to break through her admittedly dour mood.

"Glad you made it up here! Vignar, this woman helped kill a dragon," the Imperial 'whelp' informed the elder. "She's not one of the Dragonborn, but she throws a mean javelin and axe."

Vignar – who had to be a member of the Clan Grey-Mane, if she recalled gossip correctly – regarded Bronja with new respect. "Well, maybe you'll be worth more than most of the whelps around here. Kodlak Whitemane's downstairs if you want to join."

Aela, a striking woman with the lithe build of a hunter, nodded briefly as she neared. "Bronja of Riverwood. I don't see your friends Ralof and Hadvar with you."

"They're still up at Dragonsreach, getting drunk knowing them," was the sighing reply. "And they're off to the Greybeards or to report to General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak, which will only bollocks up this damned war even further."

The balding man she'd been speaking to, clad in some kind of wolf-emblazoned steel armour, joined the Huntress' side. Skar or Skjor or somebody. "This one fought a dragon?" he asked, sounding a touch sceptical.

"She blinded it and threw the axe that made it fall down so we could kill it," the giant reported. His voice was soft and rough, kinder than one would expect from a veritable behemoth even by Nord standards.

"Is that so, Farkas?" Skjor's single eye regarded Bronja calmly and she quickly stood up. "So why are you here, girl?"

"Well, on the pragmatic level, it's because I'm on my wander-year and Eorlund Grey-Mane doesn't have anyone apprenticed," she answered, figuring she might as well be upfront. "On the personal level, I'd like to be in a group that isn't demanding I take a side in a war that was started by the Empire calling in a petty warlord to kill the Daedra-worshipping bastards that took over the Reach and let him murder anyone the Silver-Bloods didn't like."

"Ulfric is not a petty warlord-" Vignar began to angrily protest, only to be quelled by a firm gaze from Skjor.

"She's a Reachwoman, Vignar, and the Silver-Bloods _are_ corrupt." The one-eyed warrior folded his arms and continued to study Bronja critically. "Take yourself down to Kodlak. He makes the decision on who becomes a whelp."

_I'll need to watch Vignar,_ she thought warily. The Companions no doubt had political opinions of their own but she knew the Grey-Manes were long on honour and respect in Whiterun, if short on cash when compared to their rivals the Battle-Borns. Once, the clans had been friends. Just like Ralof and Hadvar…

To distract her from thoughts of the past couple days, Bronja nodded to Skjor in both acknowledgement and farewell. Perhaps this wasn't one of Ralof's bad ideas after all.

…

"So, a stranger comes to our halls."

Bronja decided not to mention the conversation she'd overheard before being spotted by the hoary old Kodlak Whitemane, instead nodding respectfully to the chief arbiter of honour in Skyrim. Even Jarls bowed in recognition of the Harbinger's advice in matters of honour and defence; the foresight of the chief spokesperson of the Companions was legendary, said to be a mystical gift from Ysgramor himself.

The other Companion, the taciturn Vilkas, didn't seem impressed with Bronja one whit. She wasn't surprised; short, a bit on the plump side and clad in secondhand armour, the smith wouldn't be impressed with herself either.

Kodlak's faded blue eyes were sharp as he watched her calmly. "What brings you here, lass?"

"I wish to join the Companions," Bronja answered, forcing herself to speak through a voice gone dry.

Vilkas snorted derisively, only to receive a reproving gaze from Kodlak.

"Is that so? Let me see… Hmm, yes, a certain strength of spirit." The Harbinger looked her up and down musingly. "But tell me: why do you wish to join the Companions?"

"As I told Skjor and Aela upstairs, I'm on my wander-year and Eorlund Grey-Mane has no apprentice." Vilkas barked sharply as she spoke but Bronja ignored him. "The second reason is that Ralof and Hadvar of Riverwood are both Dragonborn, one on either side of the civil war. In the Companions, I might have the choice to remain neutral because I'm not fond of either side."

"Ralof and Hadvar are Dragonborn?" Kodlak didn't bother concealing his surprise. "The Divines certainly have a sense of humour, it seems. If I recall the residents of Riverwood correctly, that would make you Bronja, correct?"

"Yes, Harbinger."

"There is a need for a younger smith here, but that is up to Eorlund Grey-Mane to decide. In the meanwhile, I see no reason why you cannot join the rest of the whelps."

Vilkas leaned forward, gesturing sharply with a big hand. "This girl is nobody, Master! And she looks weak."

"I am no one's Master, Vilkas, and the last I heard we had an empty bed for one with a fire burning in her heart." Kodlak's tone was reproving and the grim-faced Companion flushed with shame.

"Apologies. But does she have the strength and will to fight?"

"You can be the test of that. Tell me, child, how are you in battle?"

Bronja decided to be honest. "I'm best with thrown weapons and I only killed my first man two days ago. But I helped fight a dragon. I imagine I have a lot to learn."

Kodlak smiled approvingly. "Vilkas can get you started on that. Take her out to the yard and see how she is with ranged and melee weapons."

"Aye," Vilkas agreed in a surly tone. "Let's get this over with."

Kodlak nodded to them both. Bronja, her stomach sinking, followed the rangy warrior to the courtyard of Jorrvaskr where several people were training.

"This should be interesting," Skjor observed to Aela.

"She'll be fine," the redhead said with more confidence than Bronja felt.

"So the old man said to test you. Draw a weapon and strike at me. Don't worry about hurting me," Vilkas instructed as he collected a sword and shield from the weapons rack.

She drew her hand-axe, being the weapon she was most comfortable with, and obeyed. Vilkas easily caught the blow with his shield, but didn't return, so Bronja struck him twice more in a pattern Ralof had taught her. He blocked them all readily enough and then sheathed his sword.

"You're not a total loss, I suppose. Now show me your skill with ranged weapons."

In answer, Bronja spun around and threw the axe, watching it land directly in the bullseye of an archery target about fifteen yards away. "I'm pretty lousy with a bow," she admitted.

"Well, I suppose you're competent enough. I'll have you work on one-handed weapons with Athis and you can teach him how to throw axes." Vilkas returned the shield to the armour rack and unbuckled his sword-belt. "Run this up to Eorlund to have it sharpened. And be careful, it's worth more than you, whelp."

Bronja nodded, figuring she'd be hauling stuff for a while. That was fine by her. She was still trying to get over being tacitly accepted into the Companions.

It was a short walk to the Skyforge. Bronja stopped at the top of the stairs, staring at the legendary forge in awe, her Breton ancestry resonating with the magic woven within. It was more than essence; it was spirit and sweat that bound the steel from this forge as much as skill.

"Are you going to stare, whelp, or will you hand over that sword Vilkas wants sharpened?" Eorlund Grey-Mane, a still-powerful man in late middle age, demanded sardonically.

"My apologies, Master Eorlund. Every smith in Skyrim dreams of laying eyes on the Skyforge and I'm one of them," Bronja answered, moving past the forever-burning forge to offer the sheathed blade to the most legendary smith in the north.

Eorlund looked up, eyebrow arching as his eyes rested on her hammer and Zenithar pendants. "So you're the girl who fought the dragon with the Dragonborn. Good for you."

She wasn't sure if he was being sincere, sarcastic or both.

"Now go sharpen that blade. Remove your enchanted jewellery; I want to see your skill in its raw state."

Bronja obeyed, even removing her Zenithar pendant (while uttering a silent prayer to that god), unable to believe she was actually going to sharpen a sword of Skyforge Steel. Oil and metal were within reach as she sat down; soon the grindstone showered sparks as she fell into the familiar rhythm of work.

"How the hell did Vilkas manage to notch a Skyforge Steel sword so badly?" she mused quietly.

"He's used to the heavier two-handed blades, the idiot. Notched that one pretty badly on an escaped criminal's head," Eorlund answered dryly.

"What a sin and a shame to spoil so fine a weapon." But slowly the notches disappeared and with it, Bronja's misgivings. If nothing else, she could tend the weapons and armour of the Companions.

"Lean the blade against the grindstone harder. Skyforge Steel is tougher than that second-rate crap from Dawnstar," Eorlund ordered.

"Yes, sir."

"I'm not a sir and we don't obey anyone here. No need to be a Jarl's kiss-ass, girl." Eorlund returned to repainting a shield. "No, I'm not a Companion like my brother. I'm just a bloody smith."

"And Farkas is just a little taller than most," Bronja retorted, feeling more comfortable with this crusty old fart.

Eorlund snickered. "You have a spine, good."

Finally, she was done, the sword's edge glittering like the stars which had begun to appear overhead. Bronja was exhausted and starving, having shoved away those feelings to do her work.

Eorlund came over to examine the sword, finally making an approving grunt. "You can take over basic maintenance," he decreed. "That will give me more time with Fralia. We lost a son and she's in mourning."

"I'm sorry for your loss," she murmured, thinking on how the Battle-Borns had been abusing the poor woman a few hours ago.

"The Battle-Borns know something but they won't tell us what." Eorlund sighed and lifted up the finished shield, handing it to Bronja. "Take this to Aela."

"Of course." Bronja hefted it easily.

"Good on you," Eorlnd said approvingly. He then began to pack up his tools for the night in a clear dismissal.

She headed down into the basement of Jorrvaskr, where a sleepy-looking Ria (the Imperial) told her where to find Aela's bedroom. It seemed the Circle had their own rooms.

The Huntress greeted her with a brief nod. "Good to see you here," she said, accepting the shield. "I'll get Farkas to show you where to sleep."

"Farkas!" bellowed the shirtless Skjor as he lounged on the woman's bed.

"You called?" asked the big Companion, arriving almost instantly.

"Of course we did, Icebrain," Aela retorted affectionately. "Show the newblood where she'll be sleeping."

"Newblood? She's staying then?" Farkas smiled at Bronja from his superior height. "C'mon, I'll show you your bed."

Bronja stared at the Companion's broad back as he led her to the whelps' quarters. He didn't seem like the sharpest of blades, but there was a quiet kindness that reminded her of Hadvar and he smiled nearly as much as Ralof. "It's nice to see a new face around. I hope we keep you – this can be a rough life," he was saying.

Once at the quarters, he looked down at her. "Tilma will do the cleaning. She always has. I guess the others are eager to meet you. When you want work, come talk to me or Aela. Skjor and Vilkas handle the bigger stuff, the ones you need to be famous for."

Bronja found a smile for the gentle giant. "Thanks, Farkas."

"You're welcome. Already got a job lined up if you'd like it." He smiled at her again, quicksilver eyes warm. "Mikel the Bard's been bothering Carlotta and she's asked us to tell him to leave her alone – with our fists."

Bronja knew something of brawling. She also knew that something like this involved stopping a feud in its tracks before strife engulfed clans, a town, even a Hold. "I'll do it tomorrow," she promised.

"Good. He's an annoying little bastard." Farkas smiled and nodded again before leaving.

"Looks like someone's got an admirer," sneered Njada.

"One more than you've got," mumbled Athis, sitting in the corner with a wicked bruise on his jaw.

"Hi, Boobs, I'm Torvar," greeted a drunk in the other corner.

"Hi, Drunk, I'm Bronja," the smith retorted sweetly, drawing some laughter from the other whelps.

"Welcome to the Companions!" Ria told her sleepily. "Bed across from me's free."

"Thanks." Bronja stripped down to her shirt and breeches, laying out her armour on the rack provided. Maybe she could upgrade if she didn't totally suck as a Companion…

Once her head hit the straw-stuffed pillow, she was asleep, lost in dreams of dragons and swords and two men who could save… or destroy… Skyrim forever.


	6. Walking to High Hrothgar

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Some light m/m slashy goodness.

…

**Walking to High Hrothgar**

It was an awkward carriage ride to Ivarstead. Ralof blamed Hadvar for letting Bronja leave and Hadvar blamed Ralof's big mouth for driving her away. They didn't argue about it because Borlam didn't need to know. But once they were off the carriage, there would be words between them.

Jarl Balgruuf had outfitted them with anonymous iron and leather armour, enchanted their steel weapons and given them the right to buy property in Whiterun if they wished; all the standard perks of a Thane. They'd probably repaid him by drinking half the wine and mead in Dragonsreach, something Hadvar regretted deeply. But how else could they react to the clusterfuck arranged by Akatosh.

Finally they arrived, the carriage parking near the Vilemeyr Inn so Borlam could have his lunchbreak. "Good luck, Dragonborn," he farewelled before entering the inn.

Hadvar started walking to the bridge, forcing Ralof to catch up with him. On the way, he offered to take Klimmek's supplies for the Greybeards up to them, much to the gruff man's delight. Might as well do something right on the way to destiny.

It wasn't until the second switchback that Ralof opened his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by Hadvar's chop of the hand. "If you say 'Ulfric' or 'Stormcloak' one more time, I will kick you in the balls," the Legionnaire said tersely.

"Hmmph." Ralof glowered, his typical good humour vanished, and looked to the road ahead. Along the way, they'd been stopping at each Wayshrine as was appropriate for pilgrims – because Dragonborn or not, they were still supplicants to the Greybeards, guardians of Kyne's great gift to mankind.

A pair of ice wolves attacked a short while later, discovering the hard way that pissed-off Dragonborn made for bad enemies. Hadvar had two new pelts he could tan for the cloak he'd surely need in winter…

"If you don't help us, all you will do is prolong Skyrim's misery," Ralof finally said.

"I'm not an oathbreaker, Ralof. And the Jarl of Windhelm is a stone-cold killer. Torygg didn't deserve to be slaughtered like a rabbit in front of his wife. Bronja's parents didn't deserve to be killed for their mine."

"Ul-… He is willing to admit and rectify mistakes. I'm sure once we tell him the truth about Kolskeggr Mine, he'll have the Silver-Bloods return it to Bronja."

"If you believe _that_, Ralof, you're even more naïve than I thought."

Hadvar found himself slammed against the back of a Wayshrine, Ralof's bright blue eyes burning with the passion that had drawn the quiet Legionnaire and the serious Bronja to him as children. "You are naïve to believe that the Empire gives a damn about Skyrim beyond being a source of warm bodies for the Legion."

The memory of a dozen hunting trips between their rite of passage and Bronja's flashed through Hadvar's mind. It had seemed natural to experiment with his best friend, to taste and touch, and to plan for their future together. It was easy as breathing to be embraced by Ralof, to lie curled up with him like a puppy, while they waited for her to grow up a little more. At Weynon Stones, the Reachwoman between them as they slept, had been one of the most peaceful nights of his life.

"I know you think you're fighting for us, Hadvar. I… know Ulfric has done questionable things. Even he admits his mistake at Karthwasten." Ralof's lips moved as he spoke against the slightly shorter Hadvar's forehead. "But we need men like you and women like Bronja. Too many racist bastards surround the Jarl of Windhelm."

"Ralof…" Involuntarily, Hadvar shifted so that they fitted closer, the blond stepping into the space as neatly as matching puzzle pieces.

"I love you. I love Bronja." Ralof nuzzled down Hadvar's face, keeping him pinned against the cold rock-face. "I don't like the idea of us fighting. I _can't_ fight you."

"Ralof-" Hadvar drew the Stormcloak closer, kissing him hard. It was so right, the dragon within agreeing…

Then they broke apart, resting their foreheads together. "Think about it," Ralof muttered. "Please."

"I will, if you consider my point of view and Bronja's," Hadvar agreed.

The blond closed his eyes and nodded. "That's… fair enough."

Truth be told, if Hadvar could walk away from his oath in the Legion, he would. He'd join the Companions and guide them to killing dragons, him and Ralof taking the beasts down together. But the Legion punished deserters worse than the Stormcloaks.

"We'd better keep walking. It's a long way to the top." Hadvar broke away reluctantly, wondering exactly what the hell he was going to do now.

"Yeah…" Ralof pushed back his long gold hair, his bare arms flexing with the movement. He was the Whiterun type: blond and rangy, no doubt descended from some bored Jarl tumbling an ancestor. Hadvar was typical southern border Nord with his slightly rosier complexion, brown hair and eyes.

"We ever figure out whether Bronja was a Nord or a Breton?" he asked as he turned towards the path once more.

"Nope. And I don't think she cares. She'll go to Sovngarde when she dies," Ralof answered softly.

"If she joins the Companions, she will."

Hadvar put the smith from his mind. She was safer than the rest of them. It was time for them to climb the mountain and meet the Greybeards to learn about their Thu'um.

…

Ulfric had trained within these great grim walls, learning the holy Thu'um and becoming a weapon against the wishes of the Greybeards. Now Ralof of Riverwood was Dragonborn, alongside his beloved, and Master Arngeir was looking at them in consternation.

"I heard only one Voice," the Greybeard observed after collecting himself, the others filing into the main hall. "Shout, Dragonborn, and let us feel your Thu'um."

Ralof exchanged glances with Hadvar before Shouting, the force little more than a strong shove. It was the same for the burly brown-haired man, the Shout barely stirring the stern-faced Tongue.

"Shout as one."

They obeyed and it was a roar, staggering Arngeir and a balding Greybeard back several paces.

Once Arngeir had gotten back up, the elder was shaking his head in bemusement. "Why would Akatosh divide the soul of a dragon in two?" he asked.

"I am a Legionnaire and Ralof is a Stormcloak, but before that we were… close," Hadvar answered.

"Ah. Perhaps you are meant to unite Skyrim." Arngeir sighed, shaking his head. "Ulfric has lost his path. A heartbreaking thing when he could have been my equal."

_Sitting on your arse up here while Skyrim suffers? I don't think so, old man._ Ralof respected the Greybeards as he would any other priest, but he still held Ulfric in greater esteem. The Jarl was sacrificing his life to free Skyrim! Arngeir should honour him for that choice.

"I must confess I'm at a bit of a loss," Arngeir observed. "I shall see how you two learn new words."

What followed was the learning of the second word in the Unrelenting Force Shout and a new word for one that would allow them to run like the wind. It seemed that they shared understanding of the words together when they touched, no matter who leaned the word, and both learned swiftly. Arngeir was both impressed and alarmed.

Finally, they were told they would need to find the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller in Ustengrav near Morthal and allowed to stay the night on pallets. Ralof hoped being Dragonborn would get him a better bed in future. Arngeir warned them against using the Voice frivolously as it would attract dragons. For all the stick up the old man's arse, Ralof decided to take his word for it. They might be destined to kill Alduin, but he'd feel better with a lot of Stormcloaks around them to help out.

In the morning, Ralof inhaled the cold air gratefully, glad to be free of the stuffiness of an old fortress. Hadvar, who'd been quiet even compared to his usual subdued self, looked relieved to be gone too. But the Legionnaire was also troubled.

"If you and I have the same dragon soul, that complicates things even further," he observed once they were halfway down the path to Ivarstead.

"I always knew you were the other half of my soul," Ralof answered softly. "To me, there is no complication. We are meant to be together."

"Ulfric doesn't crucify deserters. The Legion does," Hadvar pointed out grimly. "And we will need to be able to go to all the Holds."

That was a point Ralof hadn't considered. The Stormcloak sighed, shaking his head. "We'll talk to Delphine," he finally suggested. "She knows politics better than either of us."

As if Talos had heard an unspoken prayer, the Blade was waiting for them at the Vilemyr Inn, Hadvar having been paid by Klimmek for delivering the supplies. She took them to the old barrow nearby, explaining that some idiot Dumner had 'haunted' it using a magical potion. "There's a Word Wall inside," she said. "And we need to talk."

One draugr-clearing and a new word later, Ralof and Hadvar were finally able to explain what the Greybeards had said. Delphine's response was… profane, even by professional soldiers' standards.

"I'm glad I saved you the trouble of going to Morthal then," she reported, handing them a charcoal rubbing of _another_ Word, this one for some kind of Fade Shout – and the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. "I'd wait a couple weeks before returning that to them though."

Ralof grinned. "What they don't know can't hurt them?"

"Exactly." Delphine grinned at the blond warrior. "Bronja's settled nicely into the Companions. I think she'll be part of the Circle one day."

"Pfft, she'll be Harbinger," Hadvar said wryly. "She hates taking orders."

Delphine chuckled. "We'll see. But I've got a bead on the Thalmor's involvement in all of this."

That killed all the humour, the two men staring at the Blade. "What do you mean?" Hadvar asked uncertainly.

"They're looking for one of our old loremasters. Probably Esbern, if he's still alive; the old bastard knew everything on the dragons he could find." Delphine's expression was grim. "We need to infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy during one of their parties to find out."

"The Ambassador knows me," Hadvar pointed out.

"I know. That's why Ralof is handling the operation." The Breton smiled sharply. "He was always a better liar than you."

Ralof set his jaw stubbornly. "I need to report to Ulfric first," he said stubbornly. "If he thinks I'm a traitor-"

"We can do that," Delphine said reassuringly. "Besides, I know him from the Great War. It'll be good to catch up again."

Ralof couldn't help but look smugly at Hadvar. Even Delphine thought Ulfric was a good man!

"Only if I can report to General Tullius in Solitude," Hadvar countered.

"We can do that too. I don't know the man, but I recall Legate Primus Rikke." Delphine stretched slowly like a sabre cat. "I'm not going to tell you what to do beyond 'don't be scared of your power'. The Greybeards want you to sit on your rumps, but there's a lot that needs fixing down here. If the Greybeards are right and you have the shared soul of a dragon, that's happened for a reason."

"Arngeir said we might have to unite Skyrim," Ralof said cheerfully.

"Maybe." Delphine chuckled wryly. "We'll head to Windhelm and then take a ship to Solitude. I've put everything in place for the party – sorry to fake my injury, but I needed the time to organise things."

"Whichever side had you as an ally, Delphine, they'd win the war," Hadvar observed in awe.

"I'm on your side. Not the Imperials, not the Stormcloaks," she replied. "You'll have to decide the fate of Skyrim yourselves."

_No pressure,_ Ralof thought dryly as he turned for the exit. _I hope Jarl Ulfric can persuade Hadvar where I can't._


	7. The Fight in Halted Stream Camp

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing!

…

**The Trip to Halted Stream Camp**

Companions always travelled in pairs or trios, usually one member of the Circle accompanied by a couple whelps. Bronja, in the week since her joining the heirs of Ysgramor, had graduated from simple brawls and animal extermination to being assigned to clear out a bandit's den with the giant Farkas. Eorlund had allowed her to adjust some steel armour collected from a dead Imperial bandit so that it fit her comfortably, making critical but helpful comments on her technique, and repairing a bow for Aela had earned her a steel horned helmet. Under the senior blacksmith's eye, she was forging a new hand-axe to replace her old one, feeling the surge of the Skyforge's energy with every tug of the bellows. Something old, a legacy of powers more ancient than Atmora, lingered here and it felt _right._

Bronja had quickly fallen in with the Companions and discovered that while there were disagreements, there was little rivalry beyond the ongoing feud between Njada, a devout Talos worshipper, and Athis, who'd come ten years ago from Windhelm and two centuries before that from Morrowind. And even those two traded techniques cordially enough; it was expected that you shared your knowledge with your Shield-Siblings, for they were your family. But Kodlak was dying and the Circle was split on _something_, only fragments of whispered conversations drifting down to the whelps.

Each member of the Circle had their own specialty: Farkas handled and doled out the jobs involving defence of Skyrim, be it stopping a feud by punching up a fool or slaughtering bandits; Aela dealt with anything involving animals; Vilkas, sharp-tongued and surly, was responsible for rescues and escaped prisoners; and Skjor tended to deliver missions involving finding stolen items. Even the whelps were expected to have a particular strength: Njada was the master of the shield, having earned her name when blocking an overheard blow from Vilkas in a sparring match, while Athis had a knack for any of the one-handed weapons. Ria was the youngest but Bronja could tell she was being groomed to handle the proper wearing of light armour; Torvar, on the other hand, only specialised in being a drunk. And of course, Bronja was responsible for teaching the others how to maintain their arms and armour.

They set their own schedules, accepting missions when they pleased, a strange thing to Bronja who was used to working all day, every day but for Sundas. She had settled on working missions or the Skyforge between Morndas to Fredas, spending Loredas tending arms and armour or running errands for people in town, and attending the Temple of Kynareth on Sundas on a restday. Torvar only worked enough to make coin for drink; Ria, Njada and Athis tended to work three or four days a week while training on the rest. In a week, Bronja had already managed to complete six minor jobs, managing to fit a brawl in Rorikstead and clearing out a wolf den on the one day. She _thought_ Aela and Farkas looked pleased.

Now she and the big dark-haired man were off to Halted Stream Camp to clear out the scum and retrieve Amren's sword, which she'd agreed to do in return for some knowledge of Redguard swordsmanship. The other whelps looked at her oddly for trading a mammoth tusk to Ysolda in return for a few pointers on haggling or accepting potions from Arcadia for running down some frost salts from Farengar, but Bronja supposed they'd never lived in a village where coin was scant and barter was the main trade.

"You're fitting in well," Farkas noted as they left Whiterun. It was a beautiful late summer's day, the wind redolent with the scent of grass, tundra cotton and lavender. Bronja recalled her job in Rorikstead and the faintest whiff of juniper from the Forsworn camp over the hill; it made her feel a trifle homesick.

"I'm used to hard work," Bronja answered. "From Morndas to Loredas."

Farkas huffed in amusement. "You did two weeks' worth of jobs for most whelps in five days. You might need to slow down a bit to let the others get some experience."

"Eorlund told me not to bother him at the forge more than twice a week and while Adrianne's grateful for me delivering that greatsword to her father, she's a bit miffed I'm working the Skyforge now and then."

"You can socialise with us, you know. Don't have to work from dawn until dusk."

Brona regarded him bemusedly. "I eat meals with everyone when I'm in."

Farkas sighed, as if she was missing the point. "The workload you're giving yourself will burn you out, Bronnie. I've seen it a half-dozen times. You'll break and get yourself injured, dead or just plain crazy."

"Oh." Farkas was a veteran Companion, so she had to take his word for it. "I'll… find something practical to do on a Fredas then. I… just can't sit around and drink unless it's after Temple."

The big man grinned as he scanned the horizon to the north. "You'll do fine. Just need to relax a bit, get to know the others."

"It's hard when only Ria and Athis are willing to talk to me," she pointed out testily. "Well, Torvar is too, but I'd rather not be called Boobs."

Farkas lost the grin, sighing. "Njada's pa was a Stormcloak killed by Forsworn," he explained.

"And my parents were executed by Ulfric Stormcloak for doing the sensible thing and obeying the Daedra-worshipping bastards with a stone axe in one hand and a fireball in the other!" It wasn't 'collaboration' when you obeyed out of fear for your life.

"Huh. When we get back, you and Njada are sitting down over a few bottles of mead and talking about it. We've got enough trouble with the feud between her and Athis without one happening between you two as well." Farkas rolled his massive shoulders. "Come on, whelp. We've bandits to kill."

A pair of foolish necromancers decided to jump them on the way; Bronja shook off the Soul Trap thrown at her and threw her hand-axe. It landed in the idiot's head, killing him instantly. Of course, his erstwhile friend raised him as a zombie…

Farkas cut the zombie and the necromancer in half with one swing of his Skyforge Steel greatsword. "I hate necromancers."

There was a story in that statement but Bronja didn't press him, as the normally happy-go-lucky warrior looked pissed. Instead she looted the corpses for coins and salvageable jewellery, and then followed Farkas in the general direction of the camp.

"It used to be a hunter's camp," Farkas explained a little while later as they hunkered behind a boulder. "Now it's chock-full of bandits because of the war."

"And of course we clear it out and it'll get full of them again," Bronja observed sourly.

"Yeah. Jarl Balgruuf does what he can, but he's got both sides yapping at him." The Companion sighed sadly. "So we do what we can. Damned Jarls; if Kodlak wasn't so sick, he'd've made sure that duel between Torygg and Ulfric was fair."

"The new Harbinger will have their hands full," Bronja agreed. She peeked up over the boulder and muttered. "Five people in the camp outside."

"I know. You ready?"

"Nope. But you'll go whether I am or not."

Farkas' grin reminded her of Ralof's as he stood up and bellowed a war cry.

It was getting easier to kill people, which Bronja hated, but she was able to last longer in a fight these days. She killed two to Farkas' three, the warrior looking other the butchered mammoth thoughtfully. "We'll grab that on the way home. Need to stock up for dinner."

"Should salt some for trail rations and winter," she suggested. "And I'm worried about our stocks of root vegetables and green things."

Farkas looked at her bemusedly. "That's Tilma's job."

"Tilma's also sixty. We need to either start doing more cleaning around the place or hire someone younger to help the old girl out."

Farkas shook his head, still bemused. "You think of everything."

"I grew up in a village, Farkas. What you grew and hunted had to last you through winter. Predators get brave and start sniffing at your door when the snows come. You need firewood, enough straw and moss to repair any chinks in your home so the drafts don't come through…" Bronja sighed, shaking her head.

"We never lack for meat," the Companion assured her.

"And that's why Torvar has the bleeding gum sickness. You need green things – even sprouted beans – to stave it off." By the gods, how could the Companions be so mighty but so lacking in common sense?

Farkas grunted and led her down into the camp, where another fight awaited. Having picked the door and finding the spiked pit into which an Altmer had fallen, Bronja worked through her anger by mining all the iron ore in the place for Eorlund… and discreetly reading the Transmute Ore book. Smart bandits; shame they hadn't decided to make this a legitimate settlement. It had practically everything a person needed…

"We should resettle the survivors of Helgen here," she suggested quietly. "Maybe throw in a couple guardsmen to keep an eye on things."

"You could tell the Jarl that," Farkas agreed. "You're a Thane, after all."

Bronja sighed, not wanting to be reminded. "I know we're outside politics, but there's a duty there. I'll attend the Jarl's court on Fredas, see if there's anything that needs doing."

"It's your schedule." But Farkas sounded subtly pleased.

In the end, she managed to rig a makeshift sled that would allow them to get the meat, ore, hides and other little treasures home. Farkas, of course, hauled it willingly while Bronja carried a pack nearly as big as he. She had to admit it was a pleasure to know a man who could outmatch her for sheer physical strength.

They returned to Whiterun at sunset, Bronja managing to catch Amren and deliver the sabre his father had used. "I'm sorry I can't pay you in anything but training," the Redguard said regretfully. "Since I gave up mercenary work, things are tight for me and Saffir."

"Would it piss her off if you were to join the Companions?" Bronja asked as he demonstrated the Crashing Wave sword-and-shield move for her over and over again until she got it.

"I quit being a sellsword when Braith was born," Amren responded.

"Speaking of your daughter, she needs a kick up the arse for bullying Lars," she pointed out. "How old is she?"

"Eight."

"I was about that when I was apprenticed as a smith. Find something for her to do, if you don't mind me saying, or she'll wind up like the thugs who took your sword."

Amren stroked his chin thoughtfully before nodding. "I'll talk to Saffir. Maybe Braith can spend some time helping in the Temple to sort her out."

"Good idea. I didn't want to be offensive, but…" Bronja smiled apologetically at the Redguard.

"You understand. Maybe she could become a smith like you." Amren grinned at her before looking up at Farkas. "You'd better get back to the big guy. He looks impatient."

"Gods with you, Amren."

"And you, Bronja."

The smith rejoined the Companion, looking up at him. "What?"

"Lars should stand up for himself," Farkas answered as he began to haul the big load up the street. Some would be used as trophies, the leather would go to new boots – if she couldn't get a forge, Bronja was also a competent leatherworker – and the ore would be smelted at Adrianne's and turned into weapons.

"True warriors don't pick on others," Bronja said quietly. "Before the Forsworn came, there was a bully in Karthwasten named Ragnar. Big red-haired youth, used to pick on the littler ones like me."

"What happened?"

"The Forsworn killed him for one of their rites." She shook her head sadly. "He was a thug, but he didn't deserve that. But he'll never get the chance to grow up and be better. Braith might be."

Farkas was silent until they reached Jorrvaskr. "I guess you're destined for interesting times," he observed softly. "Being the friend of the Dragonborn and all."

"I've managed to avoid thinking about that for the past week," she said with a sigh as they entered from the back, sled leaving a gouge in the lawn that would piss off the Jarl. But it couldn't be helped…

"Well, you'll have to deal with it because the rest of us will," the big Circle member pointed out. "But go and sleep, newblood. You did well."

Bronja smiled at him, an expression he returned with warmth, and carried her pack to the storeroom. She could sort it out later.


	8. The Bear of Windhelm

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. My computer is pretty much only fit for fanfic at the moment and I have a couple assignments, hence me posting a lot of this story.

…

**The Bear of Windhelm**

Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in chain and furs. Blondish-brown hair, touched with grey at the temples and braided here and there, falling around a rugged Nord face of pale scarred flesh. Sea-green eyes, keen as a blade, watching as petitioners neared the Throne which had existed since the time of Ysgramor. Majesty hung around his shoulders like a cloak and it was heartbreaking so few people, Nord and no, couldn't see it. If they couldn't see that blazing charisma, the drive to shake the yoke of a corrupt Empire, they only prolonged Skyrim's misery.

"Ralof! You survived Helgen!" Ulfric laughed, rising from his throne to descend, clasping the surprised blond's forearm. "And you've brought friends!"

"You already know me, Ulfric Bear-Cub," Delphine responded as Ralof returned the clasp. She'd donned the full Blades armour – steel lamellar trimmed with tattered blue-and-gold brocade – and wore her dai-katana and Amulet of Talos openly. She too was grinning, a rare sight on that delicate face.

"Delphine!" Ulfric released Ralof's hand and grabbed hers enthusiastically. "I'm happy to see you, old friend."

"It's good to see you too." Delphine clasped the Jarl's hand and gestured to Hadvar with her free one. "Yes, he was the Imperial soldier reading out the execution list. But he's with me now."

Ulfric nodded, expression turning grim as he regarded Hadvar, who met his eyes easily.

"He helped me escape Helgen," Ralof said slowly. "He is Hadvar."

"I… guess friendship trumps a soldier's oath," Ulfric said at last. "Unless you've also decided to reject those bastards?"

"It's… complicated," Hadvar admitted.

"I understand complicated." Ulfric looked to Delphine. "Which one of them is Dragonborn?"

"Both. And… as Hadvar said, complicated." The Blade explained what the Greybeards had said, making Ulfric raise his eyebrows in surprise and perhaps a touch of consternation. When she was done, he turned from them to study the great bear banner above the Throne of Ysgramor.

"So long as you use your Voice to fight dragons, Hadvar, I have no quarrel with you," the Jarl of Windhelm finally said. "I will leave the rest to your conscience."

"My Voice is yours, of course, but the dragons must be my priority," Ralof promptly assured him.

"Thank you, Ralof." Ulfric turned around and smiled to the young blond man. "I regret Torygg's death, if only for the return of Alduin."

"I hope Tullius will be as wise as you," Delphine observed grimly.

"Colovians tend to be skeptics," Ulfric pointed out. "But please, you must accept my hospitality. I won't have it said the Jarl of Windhelm turned out the Dragonborn and one of Talos' Blades into the cold night."

"Thanks," Hadvar said. "It's… been a long week and a bit."

Unlike Balgruuf, who'd made up for the paucity of rich fare with an abundance of wine, Ulfric spared nothing in having the cook burden the feasting table with five kinds of meat, three vegetable dishes and a barrel of Nord mead. He ordered guest rooms be prepared with rich furs, because even in summer Windhelm was a cold miserable bitch of a place.

Ralof relayed everything that happened and Ulfric sighed, pouring them mead himself as he had no woman to do it. "Akatosh moves in strange ways," he observed.

Galmar Stone-Fist, dressed in the bearskin armour of Stormcloak officers, strode into the room. "So Alduin didn't eat you after all," he told Ralof gruffly.

"No, but Akatosh made him and a Legionnaire share a dragon soul," Ulfric said dryly.

"Let me guess, your old boyfriend from Riverwood," Galmar noted with a smirk.

"Galmar…" Ulfric said warningly as Hadvar's expression tightened.

"You've gotten old and boring," the Stone-Fist told his best friend wryly as he sat down at the man's right hand.

"What, freeing Skyrim isn't enough to keep a fire in my belly?" Ulfric retorted.

"You've settled down since Markarth," Galmar pointed out.

As one, the trio from Riverwood winced and Ralof silently thanked Talos Bronja wasn't here to explode. Of course, Ulfric caught their expressions and raised an eyebrow in silent query.

"The Markarth Incident had a lot of collateral damage, even by Blades standards," Delphine finally explained. "In fact, a Blade's family was caught in the crossfire; I helped raise Esbern's granddaughter after Karthwasten."

Ulfric sighed and hung his head. "I am not proud of Karthwasten," he admitted softly. "I was trying to prove to the Empire that we were stronger with Talos than without him."

"There is some evidence that the Silver-Bloods may have arranged executions to acquire property to enrich themselves," Delphine continued.

"Kolskeggr Mine," Galmar growled.

"Yes, Kolskeggr Mine." Delphine's cool blue eyes bored into Ulfric's sea-green ones. "Ralof and Hadvar have a best friend who was denied her inheritance and despises both you and the Empire for it."

The Jarl sighed once more. "Is she in great need? This is going to sound like a chaffering Imperial, but I need the gold from that mine to free Skyrim."

"She's a blacksmith on her wander-year… and a whelp in the Companions of Jorrvaskr," Delphine finally answered. "Hadvar's uncle trained her."

"Is that so?" Ulfric stroked his beard. "Breton or Nord?"

"We're not sure. She's never demonstrated the Grah Graat or the Dragonskin, but she's resistant to both frost and magic. And frankly, it shouldn't matter. She worships the Nine."

Ulfric looked to Ralof, who nodded subtly and then slanted a gaze towards Hadvar to indicate that the Legionnaire too worshipped the Nine.

"I'm sure that the Silver-Bloods will have destroyed any paperwork," he finally answered, rich baritone thick with regret. "I believe you. Truly. But barring a miracle or Thonar growing a conscience, she will not receive the mine."

"If she's a Companion, she'd qualify for trial by combat," Galmar pointed out. In his eyes, anyone who worshipped Talos was a worthy inhabitant of Skyrim – even mer.

"And Thonar's corruption is becoming blatant. Thongvor is… less intelligent, but a shade more honourable." Ulfric nodded decisively. "If she is willing to come to Windhelm and face Thonar Silver-Blood in combat, she'll have her chance to reclaim her inheritance if Talos believes her cause is true."

Ralof grinned. As he recalled, Thonar was a lousy swordsman, and Bronja was training with the Companions. She'd wipe the floor with him.

Ulfric leaned forward, eyes intent. "I have had Stormcloaks mark the locations of every dragon's roost and burial mound in the eastern Holds," he told them. "I would be grateful if you did something about them."

"We're running an operation against the Thalmor at the moment," Delphine confided. "But once it's done…"

Ulfric nodded, eyes glittering. "Need any help?"

"It's an infiltration mission. Ralof's the face, Hadvar's keeping the Legion busy and…" Delphine's face creased into a smirk. "I'll be acquiring information on the dragons from those bastards."

"Try not to get the papers bloodstained," the Jarl suggested dryly.

Delphine looked offended. "Have I ever done-?"

"Falinesti," Galmar coughed.

"I was young and saving your sorry arse," the Breton retorted dryly.

Ulfric grinned at his huscarl. "She's got you there, old friend."

Then the three old warhorses traded stories about their adventures in the Great War Ralof listening with glee, Hadvar with a stony expression. Feeling that everything would be right in the world, the blond applied himself to some more food and mead. _This_ was how the Dragonborn should be treated!

…

"Hadvar?"

The Legionnaire stifled a sigh as Ulfric caught him sharpening his gladius. "Yes, Jarl?" he asked politely.

Ulfric sat down on the bench easily, smiling sadly. "I don't hate the Legionnaires," he said. "I was once one."

"My father and grandfather were also. It's family tradition to serve a term in the Legion."

"It is so for many Nords." Ulfric sighed. "We are a people who keep to their oaths, even to the point of madness."

The Jarl shifted on the bench, eyes keen. "Ralof is a good man. Honourable, strong and charismatic. But he is not a thinker. _You_ are though."

"Someone had to be the smarts in our trio," Hadvar admitted ruefully. "They used to call me the brains, Ralof the beauty and Bronja the brawn."

"Esbern's granddaughter?"

"Yeah. She can drag a split twelve-foot log for fifty feet."

"…I almost pity Thonar," Ulfric observed grimly. "I fought with Thongvor and he assured me his elder brother was as honourable. I trusted them to tell me who the traitors amongst the Reach were."

"Bronja once said that if the Daedra-worshipping savage is pointing a bound sword at you and threatening to kill you, most people will wisely do as they're told," Hadvar responded. "Breton, Nord, it didn't matter – most of the Reachfolk were scared and hated the Forsworn. If you'd spoken to the locals, not just Silver-Blood and Igmund's men, you might have had more allies in the Reach."

The Legionnaire gestured towards the gates of Windhelm. "My attitude is that if you live in Skyrim and fight for her, you belong here. Men and mer bleed and die like everyone else – and just about everyone hates the Thalmor unless they're greedy bastards."

"I ask only that men and mer recognise Talos as one of the Divines," Ulfric countered. "Those damned greyskins won't, for instance."

"You haven't made it their war," Hadvar pointed out. "You haven't reached out to the Redguards, all of whom have as much reason to hate the Thalmor as we do, or the resistance movements in Valenwood and Elseweyr. Like it or not, Skyrim is part of Tamriel and that must be remembered."

"So _that_ is why you side with the Empire: not because you believe they're right, but because we must be united against a greater threat," Ulfric mused.

"Yes." He'd spent a lot of time thinking about it as an Imperial Courier.

"I am willing to be allies with the enemies of my enemies, but I will deny any yoke set upon me," the Bear of Windhelm announced softly. "I… respect your honesty, Dragonborn. I only pray that you and Ralof never have to fight the other."

"Neither do I," Hadvar said sadly. Once again he wondered if he could get himself discharged from the Legion and join the Companions.

_Rikke might allow it, but Tullius won't,_ he reminded himself grimly. _Let Tullius be wise about this!_

"So long as you harm no Stormcloak, you will be free to move around the eastern Holds," Ulfric added as he rose to his feet.

"I'm not planning to make war here, Jarl," Hadvar assured him.

"Good." Ulfric nodded and exited the Great Hall for the war room, leaving Hadvar with more questions than answers.

…

Delphine poured herself some mead and handed the silver jug to Ulfric, who followed suit and raised his flagon to her in toast before drinking. Traditional Nord hospitality could be summed up as 'meat and mead, bread and salt'; by accepting all of these things from Ulfric, she and the Dragonborn had a reciprocal duty of honouring their host and being willing to defend him. If Tullius attacked at this moment, Hadvar would fight alongside the Stormcloaks or be considered a nithing, worse than nothing.

"I'm going to try and talk the Imperials into a truce," she told the Bear of Windhelm. "We need to deal with the World-Eater first and I don't want those two distracted."

"If Rikke commanded the Legion, I would trust her word," Ulfric murmured. "But Tullius… He has no honour."

"He has honour, but it's the Colovian type. Dignitas and all that shit." Delphine sighed and drank a largish mouthful of mead. "We lost a lot of Nord generals in the Great War and the purge that followed."

"I know. No Nord has risen higher than Legate Primus, and that's Rikke because she's the 'expert' in Skyrim." Ulfric drank again. "I wish Balgruuf would join with us. Whiterun is central."

"Balgruuf sees both sides of the equation, Ulfric. To be honest, if _he_ commanded the rebellion, his urbanity and tolerance would win a lot of outside allies." Since dragging him out of a Thalmor torture camp, Delphine could get away with saying things like that to the Tongue where others didn't dare.

"You're right. But Balgruuf is by nature a merchant, a steward."

"A diplomat, you mean."

"I need… _something._ The Jagged Crown, the endorsement of the Companions…" Ulfric chuckled dryly. "I might as well ask for Talos to descend from on high and smite the unbelievers."

"…Ulfric, you're a genius," Delphine breathed. "I'll get the Companions to enforce the truce. Even Tullius wouldn't dare attack the heirs of Ysgramor."

"And what, let the Moot decide who should be High King?" Ulfric sounded both sceptical and intrigued.

"It would help with keeping the peace. You're claiming to fight for Skyrim. Well, let the people of Skyrim decide."

"Not to put too fine a point on it, Delphine, but most of the Jarls are milk drinkers. And yes, I am counting some of my own allies." Ulfric shook his head. "Balgruuf the Greater is worth two of any other Jarl excepting myself."

"Humility's never been a Nord virtue," Delphine smirked.

"It is not a time of humility, but a time when heroes are needed. Unfortunately, Skyrim is stuck with us." He finished his flagon and poured some more mead. "Both you and Hadvar have pointed out I am essentially focusing on the Nords. The pride of our race – we are the First Men – is a two-edged sword, I admit. We have warred with every other race and them with us… and memories are long."

"Every race has warred with the others, but during the Interregnum, the Ebonheart Pact and Daggerfall Covenant were strong," Delphine pointed out.

"…I see your point." Ulfric sighed. "I will send out feelers to the Redguards. They may not worship Talos, but we both hate the Thalmor."

"Who doesn't aside from the naïve and corrupt?" Delphine finished her flagon and poured the last of the mead into it. "Now, I'll fill you in on a bit of my plan because you're likely going to be the go-to guy for the Greybeards lore unless I have to deal with those assholes and their dragon."

Ulfric frowned. "I… know the Blades have opinions. But Paarthunax has spent the past five thousand years on a mountain. He could have become a draconic tyrant whenever he wanted. Whatever he did… he has more than paid for."

"I'm not going to attack him. I'll just present the Dragonborn with what he's done and let them decide." _And make sure they make the right decision,_ she thought grimly.

"You're a bloodthirsty bitch, Delphine," Ulfric noted. "So, your plan?"

"Have Bronja join the Circle in the Companions. She's competent enough and her common sense is something sorely lacking in Jorrvaskr. I… need her to be the balance between those two, as she always was in Riverwood. And honestly, Ulfric, most people want to be left the hell alone – no wars, no heroics, just the turning of the seasons. I learned that in Riverwood."

"I know. Talos knows that I'm aware of that…" Ulfric sighed, staring into his flagon. "I begged Torygg to listen to me. But he wouldn't."

"From what my sources in Solitude tell me, he agreed with you privately." Delphine drank a little more mead, knowing she was risking getting drunk. But Ulfric had more mead and she needed to know how he'd changed in the years.

"I… have heard the same. All he had to do was defy the Empire publicly! But he feared for his woman and was frightened of the Thalmor, I suppose. I pray he went to Sovngarde. He deserved that much."

"Elisif would be a poor ruler," Delphine agreed grimly. "If the Imperials had half a brain, they'd offer Balgruuf the job of High King."

Ulfric's smile was equally grim. "If Balgruuf were High King, I'd _know_ he'd be biding his time for the right moment to tell the Thalmor to go fuck themselves. But in the interests of peace and prosperity, he remains silent and neutral!"

"_He_ thinks the dragons are more important than the civil war – and he's right, Ulfric."

"I know!" Ulfric's powerful baritone was anguished. "High Kings have died in duels before and Alduin never returned. If I had known-!"

_The truth of a man lies at the bottom of the bottle,_ Delphine thought in satisfaction. She knew that Hadvar was in the war room with Ralof and Galmar, going over dragon sites; it would do the Legionnaire good to hear this.

The Blades had fought for the Empire in the wake of Martin Septim's death and provided invaluable aid to them during the Great War, only to be betrayed and slaughtered at Cloud Ruler as part of the White-Gold Concordat. Delphine knew that the second war would focus on Skyrim, likely after the last of the Great War veterans had died, and she wanted the province to be ready. If she could build alliances with Hammerfell and those who were dissatisfied with the Thalmor-!

Something better could rise from the ashes of the corrupt Empire that had spat on Talos' holy name. Even Cyrodiil would be better for it.

But Skyrim would need to be the heart of it all. And if Ulfric pulled his head from his arse, he could be the High King to make it happen.

Delphine drank the rest of her mead and silently saluted the Axe of Talos. The Hero-God no longer walked amongst them, but she would remain true until her dying day. And if she laid the seeds of a new alliance against the Thalmor, she could go to Heaven's Reach Temple in peace.

_As I will it, so mote it be,_ she thought. She had a world to save – Hadvar and Ralof just had to deal with Alduin first.


	9. The Wolf at Serpent's Bluff

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Totally ignoring how you find out about the Companions being werewolves because I can. Also expanding on the role of Thane.

…

**The Wolf at Serpent's Bluff**

Six weeks after joining the Companions, Bronja found herself leading Njada and Ria to Serpent's Bluff Redoubt to deal with the Forsworn there. For some reason, Kodlak and the Circle were bound and determined to test her leadership skills just because she was taking her duties as Companion and Thane seriously. It seemed, judging by Vignar's presence in the Jarl's court on Fredas, that the two jobs were far from incompatible, though she was heartily sick of hearing the Grey-Mane and Olfrid Battle-Born snipe at each other. A Thane's duty was to be a voice of the people to the Jarl and vice versa, to advise the Jarl on matters from theoretically being close to the ground, and to represent the Hold with honour. It was a regret that old Rorik, Balgruuf's third Thane, couldn't come to Whiterun more than once a month. She liked him.

They entered Rorikstead close on dusk, the autumn sunset painting the sky a bloody hue that promised a fine day for killing on the morrow. Bronja stopped and inhaled the scent of juniper on the breeze with a sigh, noting that Njada shared a similar expression of nostalgia and homesickness.

"So you're a Reach Nord?" the smith asked the shieldwoman softly. Events and an upsurge in jobs for the Companions meant that they hadn't been able to sit down and talk like Farkas wanted them to. Hence the white-haired whelp's presence with the cheerful Ria as mediator.

"My father Svein was a Grey-Mane cousin who married into a distant branch of the Silver-Bloods," Njada confirmed. "He fought alongside Ulfric to liberate Markarth until a Forsworn stone axe cleaved his head in two."

"My mother Martja and father Gjallar were Reachfolk who 'cooperated' with the Forsworn while having one of those stone axes and a fireball pointed at them," Bronja answered tersely. "The Silver-Bloods named them traitor, Ulfric executed them, and Thonar got his hands on Kolskeggr Mine, the richest goldmine in the Reach, four years after my parents refused to sell it to him."

"Father always claimed Thonar was a weasel with a serpent's ways," Njada observed darkly. "How did you end up in Whiterun Hold?"

"My grandfather Esbern, a Reach Nord battlemage, rescued me and took me to Alvor," Bronja replied, feeling a little relieved that Njada had no illusions about the Silver-Bloods. "How'd you wind up in the Companions?"

"Vignar arranged it. Managing to block Vilkas' overhanded blow without staggering helped too." She held up her hand to shield her eyes, peering down into Rorikstead. "Someone's coming."

Bronja hefted the bundle of armour she'd repaired from bandits' leavings, recognising the tall red-haired young man striding their way. "Erik Mralkisson. He wants to be an adventurer, so I thought we'll take him with us to Serpent's Bluff. He knows these lands and he's alright with an axe."

"And if he dies?" Ria asked quietly.

"Then he goes to Sovngarde if his soul isn't trapped." Bronja raised a hand to Erik as he neared.

"Bronja, you remembered me!" he blurted, grinning broadly. Then he winced and inclined his head politely. "I mean, 'Welcome to Rorikstead, Companions'."

"We're just whelps, Erik," Bronja greeted with a smile. "And we're taking you to fight the Forsworn tomorrow. If you're going to be an adventurer, you might as well get started."

The lad's eyes widened. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but still a bit soft. It was strange how _young_ he looked when compared to the whelps, even though he was of a similar age to Bronja. "Are you testing me for the Companions?" he asked breathlessly.

"Whelps can't recruit, but we can put in a word for you if you do well," Njada responded, her tone not quite as sharp as usual. "You'll need to take yourself to Whiterun though. That's part of the tradition: you need to be able to stand alone and walk your own path before coming to us."

"That… makes sense." Erik smiled at Njada. "Might I have your name, fair shield-lady?"

Bronja and Ria exchanged incredulous glances. Njada was no shield-lady!

The Stone-arm actually smiled a little. "Njada Stone-arm. You don't call me shieldmaiden?"

"If you're a shieldmaiden, my heart will forever be broken," Erik replied softly.

Shieldmaidens, who were once consecrated female warriors who served Talos, had been purged (mostly) by the Thalmor. Bronja knew that a few likely still existed and there were rumours of a couple serving Ulfric; she'd honestly expected Njada to have taken the oath with her devotion to Talos.

"I'm not, so your heart will be spared today." Njada's voice had softened… Gods, was she actually _flirting_?

Bronja got over her shock swiftly, deciding to move things along. "Njada, you wear heavy armour better than I do. Can you teach Erik how to armour up properly?"

Ria smiled behind her hand as Njada stared at her and Erik blushed red as the sky above. "I will," the white-haired woman retorted. "I couldn't botch it up any more than you could."

"We all have our strengths, Shield-Sister. Remember who repaired and repainted your shield." Bronja bowed a little mockingly. "Should I put you down for a bed or will you be in the barn?"

"I don't think Pa would be impressed if I practiced armour-wearing in the inn," Erik answered, cheeks furiously crimson. "He's… not happy with this."

"I'll see if we can bunk at old Rorik's house then," Bronja observed. "Mralki won't be happy with any of us, I think."

Given that it had been the Thane who hired the Companions to deal with the Redoubt, Rorik was only too happy to let them bed down in his 'manor', which was really just a fancier farmhouse, when Bronja explained the situation. Ria, having completed a troll-killing job before joining them, fell asleep immediately but the two Thanes sat up for a while longer, talking over mead.

"I'm glad that the Jarl has appointed a younger Thane to the court," Rorik observed quietly after an excellent meal of roast goat in juniper marinade. "And I'm doubly glad that she has some sense. Vignar's half-senile and Olfrid is a snake."

"Vignar's not _that_ bad," she protested on her fellow Companion's behalf. "But Olfrid knows something of Thorald's disappearance, I'll wager."

"As would I. But the Jarl can't investigate without bringing unwelcome attention to his household," the old veteran agreed grimly. "Neither of our fellow Thanes even bothers to represent their people unless there's politics involved."

"Technically we have two more, but Hadvar will fall in with the Battle-Borns and Ralof with the Grey-Manes," Bronja pointed out with a sigh. "What was Akatosh thinking to divide a dragon's soul between those two?"

"Reminding us that we must stand together as one, lass," Rorik told her gently. "You and they grew up together, right?"

"Yes," she admitted, not wanting to admit the complications that had developed between the three. She recalled Weynon Stones _very _well and Ralof's defiant kiss still burned her lips.

"What are they like?" Rorik offered her some more mead but Bronja shook her head.

"I'll be fighting tomorrow, but thanks… Hadvar's smart, quiet and steady; Ralof's your typical Nord man, cheerful, boisterous and charismatic."

Rorik nodded, setting aside the jug of mead. "And like in the Jarl's court, you are the voice of neutrality between them."

"…Yes." Bronja picked at the stewed apples he'd offered for dessert, wondering where this was going.

Rorik sighed. "I don't envy you, lass. But at least being one of the Companions will let you keep that neutrality."

"I hope so."

The Thane of Rorikstead nodded with another sigh. "Sleep well and good luck on the morrow, lass. The sooner we're rid of those Forsworn, the easier I'll sleep at night."

"Goodnight, Rorik. Gods with you."

"And you, if I miss you in the morning."

…

The next day, everything went to plan and Erik proved himself a solid asset, even if his weapons-work needed a lot of improvement. Bronja was smugly congratulating herself as she stripped the hagraven of its feathers for Acadia, the other whelps looting whatever was useful to the Companions. Taking out a hagraven and a Briarheart was no mean feat for a pack of new bloods and a rookie.

She didn't realise that the hagraven had friends until they were all hit with a paralysis spell; another hagraven, accompanied by a shaman and a Briarheart, entered the Serpent's Bluff ruins with a smirk twisting her ugly features.

"And I just got some new black soul gems," she crooned. Bronja's mind flashed back to Karthwasten when the Forsworn came, the Matriarch of Blind Cliff Cave sacrificing red-haired Ragnar to unholy gods. Now her carelessness would cost the lives of her fellow whelps and Erik…

She managed to gather some spit in her mouth and hawk it directly into the Briarheart's face as he leaned over with a nasty steel dagger. Instinctively he recoiled, Bronja's Breton blood allowing her to struggle against the spell and begin to sit up.

"You're a Reachwoman!" blurted the shaman. "Why do you fight with the dogs of Jorrvaskr?"

"Because unlike some, Forsworn, she has honour," growled Farkas from the doorway. His voice was guttural and his shadow loomed larger than usual.

Bronja was still half-paralysed when a massive man-beast barrelled into the ruins, cutting down the shaman with one swipe of his claws and then tearing out the heart of the Briarheart with another. The hagraven hissed in fear, throwing Fireballs at the werewolf – at Farkas – and backing away. She wound up tripping over an unconscious Erik, the Companion ripping off her head easily.

Despite being faced with a creature typically hunted down and destroyed, Bronja felt no fear when Farkas turned her way. His eyes were still quicksilver-grey and kind, coal-black fur receding to reveal a muscular body that made Hadvar look like a stripling and a worried expression on his handsome face. "I hope I didn't scare you," he said soothingly.

"Not I," Bronja reassured him, rising unsteadily to her feet. Njada, Erik and Ria were unconscious, thank Talos, because she didn't think Farkas would be able to explain how he was a werewolf to them without a fight.

"Good," he growled. "I was following you three – four – to make sure you'd be alright."

"Thank the Divines you did," the smith replied fervently, even as she flushed with shame at being caught unawares.

"You were doing good until you thought everyone was dead. Should have kept someone on watch while you were getting whatever's useful here," Farkas chided gently as he walked up to her, offering a hand so she could steady herself. She took it gladly, trying to ignore the fact he was the first man she'd seen naked since Hadvar and Ralof at Weynon Stones.

"I know. Gods, I was lucky you were along…" She could hear the shame in her voice.

"You live to learn another day," Farkas assured her gently. "Now let's get these three outta here before they wake up."

"I'm glad I have some resistance to magic," she murmured. "That paralysis spell knocked out the other three."

She picked up Ria as Farkas grabbed Erik; they'd need to return for Njada. It wasn't too far to outside and the now-empty Forsworn camp had plenty of bedrolls to lay the unconscious whelps down. The big Nord seemed completely comfortable with his nudity, though he constantly scanned for threats down from the plains and village below. Bronja retrieved Njada, who was just stirring with a muttered curse; as a Reach Nord, she likely had a fair bit of Breton blood herself and therefore would wake up sooner than Imperial Ria and Plains Nord Erik.

Farkas had donned a comfortable tunic and breeches – what he wore beneath his wolf armour (and didn't the sigil make sense now!) – and was raiding the Forsworn larder for dinner at they'd been fighting all day.

"Talos' balls, woman, you're strong!" Njada breathed.

"Blacksmith, remember? All of you Companions are stronger than the average villager, but I was hauling around logs and ingots from nine or ten, shoeing horses by thirteen, and carried a full split-log for about fifty feet three years ago," Bronja answered absently as she lowered the still-stiff woman onto a bedroll.

"You need to learn how to use a shield. Setting one with your strength against your average Nord, you'll break his wrist before he breaks his arm," the Companions' resident shieldwork expert told her dryly.

"She's right. You rely too much on an axe you like to throw," Farkas agreed. "A shield and a proper war-axe would let you protect your left side."

"You should definitely work on athletics in heavy armour too," Njada continued, glancing at Farkas for confirmation.

"Yeah." The werewolf smiled at Bronja. "Don't feel bad about the critique. You're no worse than Ria when she came here and better than Torvar now. We just need to find your strengths and weaknesses as a Shield-Sister so the Companions are stronger as a whole."

She flushed at the mild praise. Farkas always soothed criticism by pointing out something she was doing right, unlike Delphine who badgered her students into perfection.

"Thanks," she mumbled, feeling drained. The political conversation with Rorik last night and nearly dying to a hagraven today had exhausted her.

"I'll take first watch," Farkas told Njada. "You're on second. Whoever wakes up next is on third."

The Stone-arm nodded. "Works for me."

Bronja might have volunteered for third watch if her body hadn't decided that now was sleepy-time. As she drifted off, she wondered how she was going to broach the subject of Farkas being a werewolf with him when they were truly alone… And how Ralof and Hadvar would react to the fact she was attracted to him.


	10. A Walk in Dawnstar

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I figure the Divines can sort of communicate with their priests, so Erandur will know who the three are. :D Also, I can't imagine that a child of Akatosh would want anything less than to kick Mehrunes Dagon's ass after the whole Martin turning into golden dragon thing to stop the Daedric Prince. For some reason, I think the God of Time holds a grudge and passed it onto his kids. :P

1 Corinthians 13 is an awesome verse of the Bible, whether or not you're Christian, and it fits Mara to a tee.

…

**A Walk in Dawnstar**

The ship docked at Dawnstar to drop off lumber and grain for the isolated northern port, the captain deciding to stay until a storm to the west blew over. Delphine, who suffered seasickness, was happy for the respite though Hadvar looked impatient. She knew the Legionnaire was concerned about being considered a deserter by Tullius, who she recalled from the Battle of the Red Ring as a hardliner. The General's reaction to the brown-haired Nord being a Dragonborn was of equal concern, but Delphine had already made tentative plans to deal with him should he prove recalcitrant.

Thankfully, most of the crew would be sleeping on their ship as the local innkeeper brought mead to their ship but refused sailors entrance to the inn. On seeing the pretty Karita, Delphine could well understand why; the buxom girl would be pestered by men seeking company all night long. Hadvar and Ralof would be sharing a bed if they wanted to sleep in the inn; the Blade wanted those two so closely bound that neither would fight the other. Ralof was on board with the idea but it would take a while to get through to Hadvar.

_I hope that Tullius does something stupid,_ she thought truculently. Rikke knew Ulfric and would be willing to work with the Jarl of Windhelm to see the dragons dealt with. Tullius would dig in his heels in that contrary West Wealde manner because Ulfric was a traitor and that was that.

"-It's a curse. It has to be!"

A panicky woman was speaking to a Dunmer in plain brown robes, the round copper disk on his chest proclaiming him to be a priest of Mara. "You have nothing to fear," he was telling her soothingly. "Lady Mara protects us."

"But I keep having the same dream over and over again!" the woman insisted, voice rising.

Delphine sighed when she saw the two Dragonborn exchange glances. She _knew_ those two would want to get involved.

"Irgnir, calm down," soothed another woman, also wearing rough miner's clothing. "Erandur can't do his job if we're all panicking."

Erandur nodded slowly. "I am praying to Lady Mara to help me combat these nightmares," he promised. "But I need you to have faith."

"Of course," Irgnir responded in defeat. She allowed her friend to guide her away to the mead keg, leaving the Dunmer staring at Delphine, Ralof and Hadvar with relieved scarlet eyes.

"Greetings, sons of Akatosh and daughter of Talos," he said quietly. "Blessings of the Lady Mara upon you."

Delphine narrowed her eyes at the priest. "Here's the point where you ask us for something."

Erandur inclined his head. "And where I can point you in the direction of a Word Wall. Lady Mara told me of your coming and I knew my prayers could be answered."

Hadvar, smarter than Ralof, stroked his chin. He'd not shaved since Riverwood and a thick stubble covered his cheeks. "These nightmares are Daedric, aren't they?" he asked softly.

The priest stared at him before nodding slowly. "Yes. The Daedric Prince Vaermina is sending them for her own purposes. I need to enter Nightcaller Temple, not far from here, but I cannot do it alone."

"This sounds suspicious," Delphine said, eyes still narrow. "You're hiding something."

His body language was furtive, his prominent brow wrinkled beneath his brown hood. "I will explain when we are away from here," he answered. "I could not stand against two Dragonborn and a Blade if I meant harm."

"The greyskin's got a point," Ralof agreed – only to be slapped upside the head by Hadvar.

"Dunmer, not greyskin," the Legionnaire chided. "How'd you like to be called 'Snowskin'?"

Judging by his tone, Delphine reflected, that had happened to Hadvar in the Legion. Of all the children of Riverwood, it had been he who travelled the most, even down to Bruma one summer two years back. The news he'd brought of the entire town being reduced to something like Riften's poor Colovian cousin had been heart-wrenching for Delphine, who'd once considered it as close to a hometown as she'd ever had.

"Thank you," Erandur murmured as Ralof glared at the other Dragonborn. "I would suggest resting while you can… because we will need to leave at dawn. Vaermina is best confronted during daylight."

"No mead then?" Ralof muttered, rubbing his ear.

"I'm afraid you should be sober to face the Daedric Prince of Nightmares," Erandur answered blandly.

Delphine swore under her breath as she realised that the two were going to throw themselves into Dawnstar's troubles.

_What I wouldn't give for a full squad of Blades and a loremaster,_ she thought with an audible sigh. _Hell, while I'm at it, why don't I ask for direct intervention from Talos?_

"You shouldn't want mead anyway," Hadvar said as he ran a hand through short brown hair. "You drank enough of Ulfric's to float a ship."

"I don't seem to recall _you_ sparing the mead," Ralof pointed out in a surly tone.

"Can you two please take your lover's quarrel elsewhere?" asked the innkeeper testily. "We're already on edge from these damned nightmares."

It was Hadvar who left, his Legion shield and gladius earning glares from a couple men in Stormcloak uniforms.

"I don't envy you your task," Erandur murmured as he handed over a pouchful of coins for everyone's meal. "What was Akatosh thinking?"

"If I knew that, Priest of Mara, my life would be a lot easier," Delphine retorted. Ralof, ignoring Erandur's advice, had gone straight for the mead keg.

The red-eyed mer regarded Delphine calmly despite the fact he was hiding something. "But you must remember the Blades were sworn to _serve_, not command, the Dragonborn. You need to be in control – yet you would have better luck controlling the wind."

"And what if those two decide to part ways and fight each other?" Delphine hissed, needled that this elf had seen so deep into her.

"They will not fight each other unless forced," Erandur responded. "And in that case, if one fell, the other would soon follow."

"That's wonderful to know," Delphine muttered. "What business is it yours, anyway? We're going to help you – much against my better judgment when Alduin is the greater threat."

Erandur's scarlet gaze was wise. "Because love is at the heart of all things, Blade. It can make or break empires, shape the lives of all creatures. A grandfather's love for his daughter's only child. Two men's love for each other. A woman's wish to be loved and treasured. These things will play their part in the troubles to come."

_Typical Mara drivel,_ Delphine thought sourly. She'd loved once… and it didn't end well.

"But I overstay my welcome. I will meet you at Nightcaller Temple." Erandur bowed slightly and left the inn, ignoring the glare Delphine sent his way. Then she went to get some sleep and hope the Dragonborn didn't get into trouble without her supervision.

…

"…Did I hear you correctly? You have a museum dedicated to the Cult of the Mythic Dawn, the ones who toppled the Septim Dynasty and put us in this situation with the Thalmor? Were you born this stupid or did your mother drop you on your head as a child?'

It generally took a lot to get Hadvar riled up, but this preening Imperial idiot who was _proud _of being descended from the people who destroyed the bloodline of Talos was doing a good job of it.

"My ancestors held the fate of the world in their hands for one moment!" Silus retorted. "If you can't appreciate that, you backwoods barbarian, then get out of here so more interested guests can enter."

Though Riverwood certainly counted as backwoods, the Nords were far from barbarians. They were the First Men, the children of Shor and Kynareth, and their spilt blood meant that idiots like Silus could loll about in the south and pursue such idiotic ventures.

"I am Hadvar of Riverwood, one of the Dragonborn, and you are a fool," Hadvar answered through gritted teeth. "It is because of your ancestors Alduin roams the skies and threatens the world itself."

"See? The legacy of the Mythic Dawn continues to shape the world!" Only an Imperial would take such perverse pride in that sort of thing. Every time Hadvar ran into a commanding officer like this, he sympathised with the Stormcloaks.

"You are insane and should be locked up for your own safety. In fact, I think I'll inform the Jarl of the fact you're a Daedric cultist and let him sort out the problem." Skald the Elder was useless, but _no one_ wanted one Daedric cult in their town, let alone two!

Hadvar turned his back on the Imperial fool and headed for the door. This place should be burned to the ground and the ashes salted.

"I won't let you!" Silus screamed, the hair on Hadvar's arms rising as the cultist gathered magicka.

The Legionnaire kicked out the door with his hobnailed boot and dove into a forward roll as a Firebolt sailed over his head, across the harbour and hit the side of the ship moored there. With the athletics training Delphine and years in the Legion had instilled within, he came to his feet and spun to face Silus.

"You should have listened to your Jarl's wizard," he said softly, drawing his gladius. "Because this path can only lead to your ruin."

Whatever occultic training Silus had managed to scrape together was nothing against a Legionnaire who'd fought Forsworn, necromancers and three dragons. Hadvar cut off the Mythic Dawn descendant's head with one swing of his sword as Dawnstar guardsmen came running up with their own weapons drawn.

"Get your court wizard!" Hadvar snapped. "This fool had Daedric artefacts in there!"

They wisely obeyed, though two stayed behind with bows out and arrows nocked in case he was a danger. Soon Madena, a veteran of the Great War, arrived with a grim expression. Much to Hadvar's concern, the local Stormcloak commander was with her.

"Dragonborn," Frokmar Banner-Torn greeted politely with a nod. "I wasn't aware you and Ralof were in Dawnstar."

"Our boat stopped in here on the way to Solitude," Hadvar answered tersely, pulling a rag from his beltpouch to wipe off his gladius. "I didn't plan for this to happen."

"You reacted as any man confronted with a Daedric cultist would," Madena assured him.

"Having one manifestation of a Daedric Prince is bad enough. Two would make this place hell on earth."

"The dreams?" Madena's eyes narrowed and Hadvar belatedly began to realise he might have said too much.

"Erandur was guided here by Mara to protect Dawnstar, but Ralof and I couldn't stand by and let a priest confront evil on his own, so we're helping him," he explained quickly.

"He's right," Erandur observed softly from within the crowd, a surly-looking Ralof in his wake. "Your Blade friend is sleeping. You two will need your rest to confront Vaermina tomorrow."

Frokmar's eyes narrowed as he glanced between the two men. "I'll require some kind of bloodgeld, Hadvar Dragonborn. I believe you when you say he was a cultist, but you should have come to us first."

Hadvar sighed but nodded. "How much?"

"Given he was an Imperial who worshipped the Daedra, I'd say a hundred septims-"

"I'll pay a thousand in goods and coin," Hadvar interrupted harshly. "No one is worth less than another under the eyes of the law."

The Empire troubled him in ways that he couldn't define, but it was that (in theory) impartial justice that drew Hadvar. All were equal under the Legion's Oath aside from military rank. If the Stormcloaks were setting less bloodgeld for non-Nords, it would start a dangerous precedent where those people were considered less than… well… human, he supposed.

Erandur nodded in subtle approval as Frokmar stared at Hadvar. "You don't _have_ a thousand septims' worth of goods," he retorted.

"Once we're done with Nightcaller Temple, there should be enough to salvage," Erandur remarked softly.

"I will help pay it if need be," Ralof added. "We are both Dragonborn, after all."

The thousand-septim bloodgeld was derived from the equivalent of three years, three months and three days' wages for a common churl, allowing enough time for the grieving family to get back to their feet. It was raised according to rank (huscarls were three, Thanes six and Jarls nine) but always started at a thousand septims.

Silus likely didn't have any family and the coin would strengthen the Stormcloaks, but Hadvar would not allow any person to be counted as less than a churl. Tiber Septim had abolished thraldom, after all.

"You're not to leave Dawnstar until the thousand septims is paid then," Frokmar declared softly. "Even though the bastard you killed isn't worth the bloodgeld."

"All people are worth the churl's bloodgeld," Hadvar answered quietly before turning to the inn.

He would need some sleep before the long day ahead of them tomorrow. Talos willing, some of those fools would think twice about everything.

…

Ralof tried to live his life under one rule: "Regret nothing."

But drinking mead the day before downing some esoteric potion created from only Oblivion knew what had him regretting it. Not that he'd admit to the Dunmer in whose head he'd apparently taken a stroll. At least the man was genuinely regretful about leaving his friends to die.

Several dozen (more) dead cultists and Orcish raiders later, they were facing Erandur's old buddies across from the Skull of Corruption. Ralof didn't even bother waiting for the Priest of Mara to express his regrets but instead launched into an immediate attack on the Nord cultist.

He regretted being hit with the business end of a vicious mace that definitely snapped some ribs. That meant he was out for the battle as Delphine, Hadvar and Erandur finished off the cultists, the Priest of Mara weeping. He didn't think a Dunmer knew how to cry. Maybe Mara had taught him how.

When the battle was over, Erandur walked over to the protective barrier and dispelled it through Mara's Benevolence. Then he began to perform the ritual which would banish the Skull back to Quagmire in Oblivion.

_"He's lying,"_ crooned a high, haunting voice. _"When he has freed the Skull, he'll turn around and kill you. Claim it for your own! Vaermina commands it!"_

Ralof found himself trapped by what could only be called a nightmare. Delphine and Hadvar were in chains as a laughing Erandur, face twisted in the demonic Dunmer glower shared by the elf-mask wearers during the Day of Red Mountain, cut out Bronja's heart. _"I can give you the strength to take the Skull for your own,"_ Vaermina coaxed.

The vision changed to Ralof using the Skull to drive the Altmer into slumbering madness, retaking the world for mankind. The mer were slaves to humanity, all of whom were led by the Nords under the guidance of the Dragonborn, making a new Golden Age for Tamriel.

_"All this could be yours, Ralof Dragonborn."_ Somehow he sensed that Vaermina was telling the truth, a rare thing for a Daedric Prince. _"Just kill Erandur."_

The enticements appealed to his dragon soul, that urge for domination and conquest that lurked within every Dragonborn. Until now, Ralof – like most men – fancied himself capable of resisting the Daedric Princes easily. Great power, power enough to destroy the Empire, lurked within his fingertips-

An errant memory, not of Weynon Stones but the first year Bronja had come to Riverwood, flitted into Ralof's mind. Pudgy and big-eyed, the Reach child had flinched whenever Hadvar or Ralof looked at her sideways while she ran errands for Alvor. He'd never had someone scared of him before… and in his few moments of self-reflection, Ralof had to admit it was intoxicating. He began to scare her deliberately just to see the flicker of fear in her eyes.

Until the day Delphine had taken the trio deer hunting. Along the way, they'd run into a baby frostbite spider and Ralof had squealed like a girl, much to Hadvar's amusement. But Bronja had thrown a rock she'd picked up, killing it instantly, and immediately asked Ralof, "Are you alright?"

That was the first time Ralof had felt the shame of dishonour. On the way back to Riverwood, Delphine had pulled him and Hadvar aside to tell them (in sanitised terms) why Bronja was scared of pureblood Nords. Until then, Ralof had always listened to the stories of Ulfric's retaking of the Reach as those of heroes, a dream to hold until he was old enough to fight for Skyrim and Talos himself.

Now he understood that one person's dream was another's nightmare.

_One person's dream is another's nightmare…_ He forced himself to look at the twisted faces of the mer in the vision Vaermina conjured, understanding that the cost of _his_ dream was that someone else would suffer the nightmare.

What if it was Bronja or Hadvar Vaermina demanded one day for his use of the Skull?

_Not worth it,_ he thought at the Daedric Prince. _I will live or die on my own merits, not with twisted help from a Daedric Prince._

_ "Then be trapped forever-"_ Vaermina's voice was cut off by a radiance brighter than the sun yet warm as the hearthfire that soothed the weary traveller's bones.

_"Take your staff and leave,"_ advised a mother's stern but gentle voice. _"You aren't welcome here, Vaermina."_

Like a sulking child, the Daedric Prince obeyed the Aedra who could only be Mara, leaving with a flash of sullen violet light for her Oblivion realm.

_"I am proud of you, Ralof,"_ Mara said gently, golden light mending his ribs. _"You remembered that all beings, men and mer, are still people."_

Somehow he got the feeling that she wouldn't be interested in the Stormcloaks versus Thalmor debate.

_"But you need to learn to think before you act. Do you think Hadvar could cope if you died doing something stupid? What about Bronja? No matter where their paths take them, they are your loved ones and to lose you would break their hearts."_

_ "I love them!"_ he protested silently.

_"Do you?"_ Mara shot back. _"You see them as parts of you instead of separate individuals in their own right."_

_ "Hadvar is the other half of my soul!"_

_ "That is true."_ A warm, dry hand touched his forehead soothingly. _"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."_

Ralof flushed as he recalled the Litany of Mara, taught to all children. Was he being selfish?

_"To a certain extent, but all mortals are selfish, and the Dragonborn more than most."_ Mara touched his forehead before fading. _"Remember that love is at the heart of all things."_

The Stormcloak opened his eyes with a groan to meet Erandur's worried scarlet eyes. "Thank you," the Dunmer said softly. "To wrestle directly with Vaermina's will but to resist…? I never had the strength."

Ralof wanted to argue with him, to point out it was actually Mara who'd saved them, but the natural sleep of a body exhausted by accelerated healing caught up with him and wrapped him in a soft blanket of peaceful darkness until the next day.


	11. Questions of Honour in the Mead-Hall

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I've got some more head-canon and some changes for the Companions.

…

**Questions of Honour in the Mead-Hall**

"My Jarl-"

Balgruuf sighed dramatically, lounging back on his well-cushioned throne. "What do you want, Vignar?"

In the weeks since coming to Whiterun, joining the Companions and taking her duties as Thane seriously, Bronja had learned to recognise the tics of the court's members. Vignar only used the correct honorific for Balgruuf when he wanted something; given the repeated rumours of Thorald's disappearance, no doubt it was to try and find out what the Battle-Borns knew.

"It's about Thorald-"

"I told you last week that the Legion stonewalled me on my inquiries," the Jarl answered testily. It was a hard thing being the only neutral Jarl in a land riven by civil war but Balgruuf was rightfully more worried about the dragons than who ruled Skyrim.

Vignar's still-broad shoulders straightened, his Redguard-dark face twisting with anger. "You should be doing more than asking! You should be demanding answers!"

Olfrid, never one to miss an opportunity to needle his rival, observed dryly, "Your son choice his side and chose poorly. Be glad the rest of you weren't taken."

"Battle-Born, shut up," Balgruuf commanded flatly. "There is no honour in gloating over a rival's misfortune."

"My nephew is not 'misfortune'!" Vignar spat. "He vanished fighting for the true High King of Skyrim, the Vanquisher of the Forsworn-"

Bronja's fists clenched as he rattled off the various honour-names Ulfric had earned in the course of his life. "Don't forget to add 'The Butcher of Karthwasten'," she pointed out bitterly.

The Jarl of Whiterun nodded in subtle approval as the wind was taken out of Vignar's sails. It was sad because most days she was happy to work with her fellow Thanes, even if Olfrid had ties to the Thieves' Guild (Delphine had taught her, Ralof and Hadvar shadowmarks) and Vignar was a windy old ass. "We cannot forget Ulfric's deeds, good and bad," Balgruuf observed softly. "I've done all I can, Vignar. You know I do my best to shield my people from the Thalmor."

Vignar blanched. "You think the… the…"

Bronja, somewhat wiser in how the Thalmor worked from Delphine and Hadvar's stories, nodded grimly. "The son of Skyrim's greatest smith and nephew of a Thane of Whiterun? The goldskins would refer to him as an 'asset'."

Balgruuf leaned forward in his throne, blue eyes keen as a Skyforge Steel blade. "Olfrid, you will not insult the Grey-Manes about what happened to Thorald again. Vignar, I have done all I can without choosing a side – and I cannot announce my allegiance while dragons rage. Dragonsreach will prove its name again, so Olava _and_ Idgrod Ravencrone have told me."

Both women, famed throughout Skyrim for being able to catch glimpses of the future, rarely saw the same thing… but when they did, wise men took heed. "Kodlak has said much the same thing," Bronja confirmed.

While the Harbinger didn't have the foresight that seeresses did, he had the prescience given to the arbiters of honour amongst the Companions through the blessing of Ysgramor. No one knew how Harbingers received the gift, only that they dreamed of dangers to Skyrim… and matters relating to the Companions.

Since finding out that the Circle were werewolves, Bronja had learned the source of the discord within. Kodlak was dying and he sought Sovngarde; Vilkas would follow in his lead and bring Farkas along out of long habit while Aela and Skjor embraced the beast-blood and would be content with hunting for Hircine for eternity. She'd promised to aid the Harbinger in his course – a man's soul was his own business and all deserved redemption for past sins – and eased a little of the old man's pain.

It was strange how she'd come to understand the dichotomy of the Companions: a tight-knit group who still answered to themselves. She understood why they might have originally embraced the wolf-blood, as it would have enhanced the pack mentality, and she also understood why Kodlak sought to redeem his own honour.

_The path of the one for the good of many._ She crossed her arms and looked between the two Thanes. "Olfrid, you _know_ something about Thorald. Your tongue grows sharper when you're trying to find the path between your oath as an Imperial tax collector and a Thane of Whiterun. Vignar, the Jarl has done all he can officially. Badgering him like a bureaucrat diminishes you; a Companion, you told me, always works with deeds, not words."

"Thorald is a rebel, girl," Olfrid answered flatly.

"He is in the hands of the Thalmor. We all know that. You know something… more."

Vignar's veiny fist clenched around his Skyforge Steel sword. "If… you reveal what it is… I will not seek bloodgeld."

"Idolaf tried pressing his old Legion contacts," Olfrid replied heavily. "General Tullius himself answered and said that the boy was sent to Northwatch Keep. He also told me to drop the matter because it was in everyone's best interests."

"By the Nine," Balgruuf breathed. No one, not even Olfrid, called him out on it. Bronja, granddaughter of a Blade, felt the blood drain from her face. They had known he was in the hands of the Thalmor, but to have it confirmed…

"Thank you, Thane Olfrid," she found herself saying to the Battle-Born patriarch.

"I can do nothing," Balgruuf said, voice thick with grief and regret.

Vignar, who'd retreated into himself for a moment at the devastating news, raised a fist to shake it as Balgruuf. "Pick a damned side-!"

"Near as I understand it, Akatosh divided the soul of a dragon in two and put half in a Stormcloak's soul and the other within a Legionnaire," Balgruuf responded softly. "I think the Dragon-God wants us to work together against a greater threat. When Alduin is dead, we can argue over who rules Skyrim as we please."

"Vignar," Bronja said, walking up and taking the old man's arm, "I think this is now a matter for the Companions."

The Grey-Mane patriarch turned to her. "The Companions don't get involved in politics."

"This isn't politics. This is honour." Somehow, as she said it, she knew this was the right answer.

The older Companion's eyes widened before he nodded slowly. "I… understand."

Balgruuf nodded in subtle approval again. If the Companions of Jorrvaskr rescued Thorald from Northwatch Keep, the Jarl could spread his hands and say, "They follow their own path."

Of course, he would want a report. For all his gold-hungry ways, Balgruuf was a good ruler who genuinely worried for Whiterun. Bronja was quite impressed with the man, as he actually listened to her now and then.

"This is not to be discussed outside of Dragonsreach," the Jarl ordered quietly.

Olfrid nodded. "We… were trying to save the fool boy. I know Vignar would doubt me, but… No one deserves the Thalmor."

Vignar remained silent for once but nodded curtly.

"Then you are dismissed."

The ancient Companion didn't speak again until they were in Jorrvaskr. "I hope you can convince the Harbinger to allow us to rescue Thorald," he finally said.

Bronja didn't answer him but instead went to the Shield of Ysgramor, attached to the roof by sturdy ropes, and struck it with the Skyforge Steel sword that always lay on the table next to it. A loud ringing sound echoed throughout Jorrvaskr, a signal to the Companions to gather over a question of honour.

Farkas was first, smiling at Bronja. She smiled back, cheeks a little pink as she recalled him naked. The Companion had Ralof's easygoing nature and Hadvar's quietness in a big dark-haired package.

The other Companions, even Kodlak and Eorlund Grey-Mane, gathered in the meadhall, regarding Bronja with curiosity and concern. "I have information on what happened to Thorald," she announced tersely. "He is in the hands of the Thalmor at Northwatch Keep."

"Near the border with High Rock," Skjor explained for those who didn't know where the place was, including Bronja.

"This is important, whelp, but I fail to see why you struck the Shield to bring us together," Vilkas pointed out. "Where is the question of honour?"

"Because like Aela the Huntress of Hroti Blackblade's line, Thorald is descended from the first Thorald Grey-Mane, who was the smith of the Jorrvaskr," Bronja retorted, glad she'd listened to Vignar's endless boasting of his lineage in Jorrvaskr and Dragonsreach. "The Grey-Manes forge our arms and armour. I'm sure now, Vilkas, you can see the question of honour."

Farkas' lanky twin's jaw set stubbornly. "Explain it, whelp."

Bronja sighed inwardly. "Eorlund, for all he claims he isn't a Companion, is part of Jorrvaskr as surely as you or I. Perhaps more so, for his blood and sweat have forged nearly every bit of steel we wear. It takes more than glory in battle to build honour; it takes blood, sweat and tears. Every bit of honour we have won is because of the work of Eorlund's hands."

"Not just my work, whelp," Eorlund criticised. "My uncle taught me and the weapons of Kodlak and Skjor came from his hands."

Skjor stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I see the question, new blood. It's an interesting approach."

"You're not a blacksmith," Bronja answered softly. "We pass the metal through fire and shape it, then quench it in the water. The ingot is much different to the finished product. And yet nearly everyone who uses it thinks little to nothing of the toil that went into its forging. I won't speak for Eorlund, but being a Companion is a similar process. In the forging of Skyforge Steel, he gives us the tools to refine ourselves from the base ingot of… whatever we were… into the heirs of Ysgramor, burning away the dross of dishonour and selfishness."

"Bronja is correct," Kodlak, silent until now, said quietly, nodding proudly at the whelp. She flushed with pride; the old man had taken an interest in her, more so than the other whelps, and she found his words meant as much to her as Delphine's, Hadvar's or Ralof's. "She has discovered a question of honour."

"And how should we answer this question of honour?" Aela asked formally.

"That is for her to determine, as the question is hers." Kodlak heaved himself to his feet with a pained grunt. "What would you do, new blood?"

Bronja took a deep breath, realising everyone hung on her word and that her answer could affect lives. "I would take two or three Shield-Sibs, if they will come, and enter Northwatch Keep… to free him one way or another."

Eorlund grunted painfully, like he'd been punched in the gut, but he didn't argue with her. What the Thalmor did to prisoners before crucifying them was horrific; Thorald might very well need that mercy strike.

"Why?" Vilkas' question was harsh.

"One, because as a Companion, I am honour-bound to protect Skyrim. Thorald would be considered as an 'asset', a potential lever or source of information on us. Two, he is a Grey-Mane, a descendant of the heirs of Ysgramor and deserves a clean end to go to Sovngarde if we cannot rescue him. Three, I am the granddaughter of a Blade, and there is bloodgeld owed for what they did at Cloud Ruler Temple."

"Grim reasoning, a touch more political than I like, but acceptable," Kodlak finally said. "I suppose as a Thane you can't help but get caught up in the court's business. Only remember that while you are under this roof, you are neutral unless danger to Skyrim forces you to take a side."

The Harbinger turned to Aela. "Shield-Sister, this requires somewhat more stealth than we are used to. As Bronja has found a question of honour and would answer it, this will be her Trial – and you will oversee it."

The Huntress nodded with some surprise. "I would have thought Farkas, who knows her best, would have…"

"Farkas has confessed to thinking of Bronja as more than a Shield-Sibling. As the one who has worked with her the least, you can be the most objective."

Bronja's cheeks reddened as several snickers echoed throughout Jorrvaskr and Farkas raked a hand through his long hair awkwardly.

Aela smirked slightly but nodded in acquiescence. "I will take Athis then. If three Companions cannot free Thorald from the Thalmor, then we have no right to call ourselves the heirs of Ysgramor."

"Good." Kodlak turned to the rest of the Companions. "Skjor, take the twins, Njada and Torvar to clear out the nearby bandit fort as the Jarl of Solitude has requested. I want reinforcements near if something goes wrong."

Then he looked to Ria. "Child, in some ways you have the hardest task. As Varia Nona, you have the right of audience with any Imperial official. I want you to try and distract the local authorities. This may be a point of honour that any Nord would understand, but we are still breaking Imperial law."

The Colovian girl nodded. "My uncle runs the Winking Skeever in Solitude. I can arrange for drink to be delivered to the local Legionnaires."

"Given that Njada did the same for the Stormcloaks, I see no dishonour in that," Kodlak observed with a smile. "Any questions?"

Everyone shook their heads and Kodlak tapped the Shield, allowing them to disperse. Bronja watched the others leave, wondering why they had readily agreed to such a dangerous course of action.

Farkas wandered over, looking at her with those gentle quicksilver eyes. "Sorry it got sprung on you like that," he apologised sheepishly. "Kodlak's always upfront about these things."

Bronja blushed again. "It's alright," she told him. "I- like you too."

The werewolf smiled down at her. "We'll talk more after we rescue Thorald, Shield-Sister."

He left and Bronja shivered. Farkas was a gentle giant in every sense of the word and she was kind of small. Would he hurt her?

_Oh, for the love of Talos, if you can handle Ralof and Hadvar at the same time, you could handle Farkas._ For the first time in a week, she thought about Weynon Stones and wondered how those two were going. She felt slightly guilty – why, they'd left her – about how they'd parted. And now, in defiance of what Ralof wanted, she was developing feelings for Farkas. Maybe.

_In Jorrvaskr, I'm not in their shadow. I'm doing good here, much to my surprise. They think I'm honourable enough to follow me to Northwatch Keep…_ The honour of Jarls and ballads she'd never get, but the honour of everyday folk and Companions? She understood that well.

Why did she feel guilty, like she'd abandoned Hadvar and Ralof, when she was doing as they suggested then?

Bronja shook her head. She had to get some rest and then prepare herself to rescue a man she didn't know over a question of honour.


	12. An Awkward Meeting in Solitude

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Breaking up Diplomatic Immunity into three chapters because it's going to be… complicated. Trigger warning: misogynistic language.

…

**An Awkward Meeting in Solitude**

"_You can't save him, Ralof. You can't save the world from a prison cell if you try. Alduin is our priority. Remember that."_

_ "On this day, I go to Sovngarde."_

Ralof's hand tightened around the bottle of piss-weak booze that Solitude Nords called mead, recalling the terrible swing of Ahtar's axe and the finality of Roggvir's head falling off the stone stage. The Stormcloak had managed to retrieve the Amulet of Talos as Hadvar shielded him from view; he would give it to the man's family if it was safe to do so. It only increased his determination to see Ulfric on his rightful throne as High King but Hadvar had been correct. Alduin was the priority.

But it made sitting around, keeping a low profile and waiting for Delphine's contact to arrive harder than even he'd thought it to be. Ralof was not a liar or sneak by nature but, as Delphine pointed out, he was the least known of the trio in Solitude.

The Legionnaire had gone to report to General Tullius. Ralof _hated_ knowing his soulmate was alone in Castle Dour but Skyrim's military governor was a stern, merciless follower of Stendarr who would execute Ralof on sight. His hand tightened further around the glass bottle; if Hadvar died, then General Tullius would follow him to Sovngarde.

"We drink to our youth, to days come and gone, for the age of aggression is just about done," sang some semi-talented bard. "We'll drive out the Stormcloaks and restore what we own, with our blood and our steel we'll take back our home."

Bards were mostly opportunists and Ulfric had joked darkly about this song and the version they sang in Windhelm about the Empire being the scum that they were. Ralof forced himself to recall that bards enjoyed a certain amount of immunity because they spread news, so punching the woman would end poorly for all concerned.

The door opened, letting in a group of armoured people. Ralof looked up, face shadowed by the iron helmet he was forced to wear on this side of Skyrim to conceal his features, and gasped as he realised that… well… a significant amount of the Companions had just entered the Winking Skeever Inn. One of them, the Imperial girl Ria, held out her arms for a hug from the innkeeper's son. "Hello cousin!" greeted the man cheerfully. "What happened, you set fire to Jorrvaskr again and had to bring your friends here?"

"That was the once and only because Torvar startled me," Ria answered primly. "We've got two new members, so give them the discount whenever they're in town."

"Hi, I'm Erik," greeted a red-haired Nord youth in studded leather with a cheerful grin.

"Nice to meet you," answered Sorex. "Basically, you get a ten percent discount on your alcohol and if you're out of coin, we'll let you sleep on the floor for free."

Erik grinned. "My Pa would have conniptions if someone suggested he do that for the Companions. He's Mralki over in Rorikstead."

"I stayed there once. It was, uh, rustic."

Ralof was trying to peer through the crowd to see if Bronja was present, but the gaggle of whelps – three Nords, a Dunmer and the Colovian girl – were backed by the massive bulk of Farkas and the leaner intensity of Vilkas. The twins were legendary as both the youngest Companions on record – twelve when they became whelps and seventeen when they achieved the Circle – and as having the brawn and brains of Ysgramor shared between them.

Erik snickered at Sorex's description of his pa's inn. "The Winking Skeever's, uh, well-located," he countered.

"Yes, I had a lovely view of the execution this morning," Sorex drawled. "Roggvir's leaving of life improved it. The man was a bully and I'm not surprised he became a traitor."

The bottle finally broke under Ralof's hand, mead spraying everywhere. Someone gasped as the innkeeper, whose name the Stormcloak hadn't bothered to recall, rushed over. "You alright?" he asked anxiously.

"You should use tougher bottles," growled Ralof, calling a bit of magicka to heal the few cuts he'd collected from the broken glass.

"You should be more careful how you hold them," the innkeeper retorted smoothly. "I'll put the next one on the house."

"Given it tastes like skeever-piss, you should be paying me to drink it," Ralof told him flatly.

"If you don't like the mead, you're welcome to leave," was the innkeeper's flat response.

"Oh, for the love of Zenithar," Bronja's beloved voice said from behind the bulk of Farkas. "Let him be. I'm from the same village and he's a surly drunk."

"My sympathies, dear lady," Sorex told her smarmily as she stepped around the giant Companion. "Tell me, are you a spellsword? Because you've cast a spell on me."

Ria groaned, burying her face in her hands, and Farkas rested a hand on Bronja's shoulder. In the two months since he'd seen her, her brown hair had grown longer and was braided into a loose plait down the back with four smaller braids, two on each side, fastened with intricate bands of cloth. She was wearing fine steel armour trimmed with ice wolf fur and instead of her old iron throwing axe, a perfectly balanced one of Skyforge Steel hung from her belt and a shortened warhammer was slung across her back. More scars decorated her hands and forearms.

He was drinking in the sight of her when she glanced up at the huge Farkas and smiled crookedly, the Companion responding with the sappy smile of the lovesick. Suddenly, Ralof's anger swung from the damned Imperials to the damned warrior stealing his and Hadvar's woman.

"You seem to be doing well for yourself," he told the blacksmith flatly.

"Joining the Companions was a better idea than I thought. Thanks for giving me the idea," Bronja responded, a flicker of hurt in her big brown eyes.

"She's doing her Trial in the next couple days," added Ria, who seemed oblivious to the tension.

"That's quick. I don't seem to recall you being that good with weapons unless you were making them." Ralof knew he was being unfair to Bronja. He just wanted that damned Farkas' hand off her shoulder.

The giant looked down at the seated Stormcloak, quicksilver eyes turning wild and deadly. "You ain't going to cause her trouble, are you?" he asked softly, voice rasping like a whetstone over steel.

Hands drifted to weapons as the Companions stared down Ralof, making him think of a wolf pack protecting their own.

"I would never cause her trouble," Ralof told the big bastard, allowing his hurt to seep into his own voice. "I just hope she doesn't forget where she came from."

"That was a low blow," Bronja said coldly. "And you were the one who dragged up the past back in Riverwood. I don't know why you're in Solitude and honestly, I don't care. I have a question of honour to answer with blood and steel, and to be frank, you _and_ Hadvar are the last fucking things on my mind at the moment."

She turned away from Ralof dismissively, removing Farkas' hand from her shoulder as she looked to Sorex. "Bronja at your service," she said to the innkeeper's son. "Do you have bread and cheese for three people for three days?"

"Of course," Sorex answered. Bread and sliced goat's cheese were quickly procured, which Bronja and the Dunmer stuffed into their light rucksacks.

The Companion – yes, she was definitely one of them – handed over a small leather purse and refused Sorex's offer of wine. "My Trial is underway and I can't afford to have my wits clouded," she said.

"Good luck, Shield-Sibs," Vilkas farewelled as the Dunmer separated from the pack of Companions. "We will meet you back here in four days."

"May the gods watch over your battles," Bronja said with a smile before turning away and heading for the door, Dunmer in tow.

She left without saying goodbye. Ralof would have gone after her, this Malborn be damned, if Farkas and Vilkas weren't in the fucking way.

"You're one of the Dragonborn, so act like it," Vilkas advised with a hiss. "And if you ever imply that one of the Companions hasn't earned her place with blood and steel again, you will deal with the heirs of Ysgramor. I damned well know that you don't want that."

"If you were truly the heirs of Ysgramor, you would be fighting for Skyrim and not harbouring greyskins and Imperials," Ralof sneered in reply.

It was unnatural that a man as huge as Farkas – easily reaching the latter half of six feet – could move so fast. One moment Ralof was slouched in his seat and the next he dangled from the Companion's fist by his cloak. "I like her," the big bastard admitted. "And I bet you're the reason why she's so awkward. Now, reckon she'd be mad and Akatosh would be pretty pissed if I treat you like you deserve, _little man_, so I'll give you this suggestion: piss off, go kill Alduin and leave her alone to make her own choices."

Ralof was dumped back onto the seat just as someone with a Valenwood accent went, "Can all the big hairy Nords get out of my way please?"

"Sure thing, little elf," Farkas agreed easily. "I was just leaving anyway."

The Companions released their weapons and exited the inn, but for Ria who tapped Sorex on the shoulder. "We need to speak about something," she said, gesturing to the stairs.

"You don't say," muttered Sorex as they left.

Malborn sat down at Ralof's table without a by your leave, looking peaked and nervous. "Gods, you're what Delphine's sent? I hope she knows what she's doing."

"Just tell me what I have to do," Ralof growled.

"Well, I can smuggle in some equipment. Once inside, I'll help you slip away-"

"I'll be fine. Someone else will be handling... the sneaky stuff."

"Thank Yff're for that." Malborn's eyes glittered. "Whoever they are, I pray they kill every goldskin bastard in the place."

Ralof was reminded of Delphine's terse biography of the man: _"He's from Valenwood. Lost his family in one of the Thalmor purges we aren't supposed to hear about because they weren't pure enough. Hates them with a passion."_

_ The Thalmor have made many races suffer,_ he realised. _All because of their obsession with… purity._

_ And is the Stormcloaks' plan to kick everyone but the Nords out of Skyrim any different?_ Bronja's voice asked softly. It was always her voice that questioned Ulfric's decisions.

"I'll pass that on," he promised, telling Bronja to shut up. She was doing just fine with the Companions, apparently didn't need him or Hadvar anymore. Even had her own pet giant now.

"Thanks." Malborn looked around warily before accepting the bundle of armour, weapons and gods only knew what Ralof had been handed by Delphine. The elf stood up and left abruptly after throwing a bag of coin at Ralof, as if for a delivery.

Once he was gone, the innkeeper approached Ralof. "I'd prefer you leave," the man ordered flatly. "My niece earned her place in the Companions and so did her Breton friend. When you're living at Jorrvaskr, you criticise them. Until then, leave here and drink a cool flagon of shut the fuck up."

Ralof stood up, brushing off his cloak. "With pleasure," he snarled before storming off into the night.

The area near the front gates was dimly lit by a few flickering torches and lanterns, the stained-glass windows of Solitude glowing every hue of the rainbow. The grandeur of the city reminded Ralof that they got their wealth from sucking Imperial cock like a great painted whore.

He hated Solitude, he decided, as he headed down to the farm where Delphine was waiting to let her know he'd completed his mission. The next time he came here it would be with Ulfric and his army to burn the place down.


End file.
